Ultimatums
by Isabeau of Greenlea
Summary: A prequel to Captain My Captain. Prince Imrahil's sometimes contentious courtship with the Lady Nimrien. After a really, really long silence, Chapter 13 is up. And you thought this was a dead fic...
1. Chapter One

T.A. 2985

"Imrahil, it is past time that we spoke of serious matters," Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth told his youngest child and only son. "Sit down, lad."

Imrahil, his handsome head cocked quizzically to one side, seated himself in the chair on the other side of the desk, and settled back into it, careful of his injured shoulder. Adrahil, gazing upon the pristine white sling that held his son's arm immobile, and seeing the bulge of bandages beneath the tunic, felt a renewed pang of fear. _If the sword thrust had been just a bit lower, and pierced the lung, or over to the center more, through the_ _heart or throat_.......He swallowed hard, sighed, and decided to come straight to the point.

"Imrahil, for over twenty generations our family has held this land in trust, serving and protecting its people. Though some of our ancestors died in battle doing so, there has always been an heir to take up the burden and the throne. There is no desire in me to be the last Prince of Dol Amroth. Therefore, though it pains me to do so, I must insist that you not put to sea or risk yourself in battle again, until such time as you have an heir of your body to succeed you. I will order you to remain in Dol Amroth, if I must."

Imrahil started to rise up out of the chair in protest, grimaced, thought better of it and settled back, frowning. "But Father, I am pushing the raiders back! To cage me here now--it would undo all the work that has gone before!" Adrahil shook his head in refusal.

"I have captains aplenty who can take up where you left off, Imri--and some of them, believe it or not, are more capable on the sea than you are." Imrahil's frown deepened. "But I have only one heir, and him I will not risk until I have more than one, out of both love for him and duty to my people. Our bloodline hangs by but a thread, my son, and you dangle from the end of it. Spin yourself a proper rope, and you may imperil your life as you please."

"And has my lord father arranged a marriage for me? Is this what you have summoned me here this day to say?" The Heir to Dol Amroth's expression was one of suppressed anger, and his voice decidedly chilly of a sudden, but Adrahil, though he loved his son dearly, was a ruling prince who did not suffer his authority to be challenged.

"I summoned you here to say what I just said, and you may wipe that frown off your face and keep a civil tone when you address me!" Adrahil had seldom chastised his children and the sharpness of the unaccustomed rebuke shocked Imrahil into silence. The Prince shoved a sheet of paper across the desk to his son, who took it up slowly.

"This is a list of young women of good family, both within the principality and from other parts of Gondor. I would find any young lady upon this list to be an acceptable bride. I promised you a long time ago that I would not force you into a marriage of policy, that I would allow you to marry for love as I had been permitted to do. I do not take that promise back--I am simply giving you a time limit in which to find someone. And I do not say you must marry a young woman on this list--it is merely suggested as a starting point. If you are interested in some sort of foreign alliance instead, then let me know, and I will start making arrangements. Your heart may warm towards some other lady not on the list--unless she is totally unsuitable, I will in all likelihood give my blessing for that union as well. At this point, I would probably give my blessing even if you wished to marry a fisherman's daughter!"

"You have seen thirty winters now, Imri, and I despair of you ever settling down! I have been patient long enough, and foolishly indulgent. I have let you run up and down the coast with Andra, escaping any instruction in governance. I have paid your brothel bills without complaint and turned a blind eye to your other.... liaisons.....in the hope that you would eventually weary of this wild life of yours. But though you have not yet wearied of it, I have. So I am giving you an ultimatum."

"You have a year from this day to find a wife for yourself. For, if one year from now, you have not selected a young woman to be your bride, I will select one for you and see you wed if you have to come before the witnesses bound and at the point of a sword. Do we understand one another?"

"Yes, my lord, we do," his son responded stiffly, as he rose carefully from his chair. "Will that be all? Have I your leave to depart?"

"You do." Imrahil's bow was also somewhat stiff, and Adrahil suspected that had nothing to do with his injury. After he had departed, the Prince dropped his head into his hands. He had expected that this decision would put him at odds with his son, and as he was a man who loved his children well, the discord pained him deeply. But the needs of Dol Amroth took precedence over Imrahil's wishes. _He is a clever fellow,_ Adrahil reassured himself somewhat desperately. _A year is a long time. He will find a woman he can love._

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What Imrahil most immediately found was two mugs of beer in the kitchens, whereupon he then made his way to Andrahar's room. Andrahar, who had been more severely wounded than his lord, had been commanded by the healers to lie abed for a week yet. As he was not the sort of person who enjoyed a good book, he was acutely bored and very glad to see both Imrahil and the beer.

"You are a prince among princes!" he declared, his grin shining whitely against his tanned face. Imrahil handed him the tankard, and when he shifted somewhat uncomfortably, adjusted some of the pillows propping his wounded leg.

"I wonder if I should even be giving you this," Imrahil commented. "I am not sure that the healers would approve."

"I care not if they do!" declared Andrahar. "If they protest, I will tell them it was for medicinal purposes! Though admittedly, the dosage is a bit low......"

"Forgive me." The Prince indicated his injured shoulder. "I fear I was not up to the task of bringing you the whole keg."

"That is too bad. I would prefer to be insensible for the rest of the week." He gave Imrahil a keen look. "What ails you?" Imrahil dragged a chair over and seated himself, resting elbows on knees and sipping from his tankard disconsolately.

"Father forbids me the sea or to ride to war upon land until I wed and make an heir." Setting his beer on the floor, he opened his belt pouch and pulled the list out. "He has given me a list of potential brides, and says that if I do not choose one within a year's time, then he will make the decision for me and force me to wed." Andrahar took the list from him, and surveyed it casually.

"Finally reined you in, has he? It doesn't surprise me after this last battle, Imri. You scared him half to death. You terrified me, while it was happening. I went down, and they were still coming, and my last thought was fear that I had failed you."

"You could never do that, Andra," Imrahil replied warmly, remembering how fiercely Andrahar had fought. The enemy had not been able to get at him until Andrahar had fallen insensible, his blood pouring over the planks. He was both relieved and amazed that his friend had survived at all. Picking his beer up once more, he took a deep draught.

"So....what will you do now?" Andrahar asked curiously.

"The sooner wed, the sooner free. I suppose I will start working my way down the list, and see if any of these girls suit me. Father says that I do not have to marry someone on the list, but he has done the work of sorting through them for me, so it seems sensible to start with these young ladies." He gave his bodyguard a fond look. "I shall probably begin tomorrow, Andra, but fear not, I promise I will take an appropriate escort. You can join me when you are able." Andrahar settled back against his pillows with a smile.

"And tonight? Will tonight find you within the castle walls, the dutiful son?" The Heir to Dol Amroth gave him a rakehell grin.

"Father complained of my brothel bills today. He has seen nothing yet! If I am to lose my liberty trammeled in the bonds of matrimony, I intend to enjoy my freedom while I may. It's the Fairweather for me tonight!"

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Later that night, he lay upon the overstuffed bed in the best suite of the Fairweather, replete after an excellent meal, a bottle of the finest Dorwinion Red, and the clever ministrations of Wilwarin, his usual partner of choice. She had managed to give him a great deal of intense pleasure with very little physical exertion on his part, and the wine had dulled the pain of his wound, so he was in a more charitable frame of mind.

"I suppose it probably is time I started a family," he conceded, toying idly with the heavy gold fall of Wilwarin's hair. "Will you miss me when I come to you no longer, my sweet?"

Wilwarin chuckled throatily. "I will not have to say good-bye to you, Imrahil. You have not yet bedded a proper lady. A time or two of that, and your head will be upon my pillow again."

"Think you so?"

"Know I so! The finest lords of Belfalas, wed to the finest ladies, seek my bed in droves! The blood of Numenor runs cold in the hearts of its most exalted women. It runs cold in their other parts as well, if you take my meaning." Imrahil threw his head back and laughed, and Wilwarin's clever hands began roaming over him once more.

"Whoever she be, she will not be woman enough for you, my lusty, fair Imrahil. You and I will be sharing joy and pleasure for many years yet."

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The following day, Imrahil set forth upon his quest for a bride, having arranged his candidates in geographical order, so that his time would be spent more efficiently. Word spread like wildfire through Belfalas that Imrahil the Fair sought a wife, and there followed two months of overly rich state dinners, uncomfortable interviews with nervous, giggling girls, and the eternal, intense scrutiny of hopeful parents.

After a time, Imrahil began to feel like the prince in one of the oldest tales of his people, who had seen a maiden fair as elven kind appear mysteriously at the revels in his palace one night, only to vanish equally mysteriously leaving nothing but a slipper as proof of her presence. Enchanted, he had sought long for her with little hope, only to find a lowly goose girl fit the shoe. Imrahil had no such convenient sign to indicate that his choice was the correct one, but he began to feel that a goose girl would have been preferable to some of the ladies upon his father's list.

There was the young lady unfortunately prone to flatulence. The rather portly young woman who appeared more enthralled at the idea of gaining access to Dol Amroth's larders than in being his wife. The slender, overly intense young maid who fancied herself Queen Beruthiel come again and as a consequence, kept cats. A lot of cats.......And a fair number of reasonably attractive, reasonably pleasant young women, all of whom left him totally unmoved.

At the end of eight weeks, he had worked through half of his father's list, all of the ladies of good birth currently not at court who lived within reasonable distance of Dol Amroth, without having found a single potential mate. Deciding that he deserved a respite before investigating the candidates in the area about Minas Tirith, he returned home--and was pleasantly surprised to find Andrahar recovered enough to greet him at the gate of the City, having heard the trumpets announcing his arrival. Dismissing his escort, he rode knee to knee with his friend through the sunset gilded streets, recounting his adventures in a manner which caused Andra to laugh uproariously.

"It would seem that you are making good time, working your way through the list," he noted at last, wiping his eyes after the tale of 'Queen Beruthiel'.

"Indeed, there are none of the names in Western Gondor I have not investigated," Imrahil agreed. "And the ones that are here at court I know well enough already."

"Will we be traveling to Minas Tirith then? When need I be ready?" The prince groaned.

"Not for at least a week. I know that winter is drawing in, but I've spent the last two months in the saddle, and cannot face the idea of that ride immediately. Though it would be good to see Finduilas and the boys again. I imagine that little Faramir is walking now. And Boromir--gracious, he is seven if he is a day! More than old enough for his first pony. I shall have to see to that if Denethor has not." Though he seldom saw them, Imrahil genuinely enjoyed playing uncle to his two young nephews.

They were riding now on the street that led up to the gate of the castle itself. It was lined with the grand houses of the nobility, and as they passed by, Imrahil caught more than one glimpse of a young face at the window, watching them. He sighed. It did not take the precognitive gift of his bloodline to know that evening court was going to be a trial of endurance.

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His prediction proved to be correct. Dinner, and the dancing that came afterward in celebration of his return were fraught with females set upon catching his eye. He wondered wryly if there was a single bolt of silk, velvet or brocade left unclaimed and uncut in the city. His entrance into the marriage market had provided quite the boost to the local economy--at least as far as the dressmakers and jewelers were concerned.

Adrahil had greeted him most cordially, obviously eager to mend their differences, and in truth, Imrahil loved his father too well to hold a grudge for any length of time. The progress report he was able to give the Prince, while inconclusive in result, spoke so greatly of earnest effort that he was able to pleasantly bask in a feeling of virtue the whole evening. Deciding to continue his habit of ruthless efficiency in romance, he socialized with most of the young women in the room that night, and immediately struck half of them off the list as people he could never unite himself with. That list was melting away like snowcaps on the Ered Nimrais in Spring, and during one rather painful dance with a very clumsy and mortified young woman, he entertained himself by imagining what his father would do were he to introduce Wilwarin as his intended bride. The resulting amusement almost made him forget the pain in his trampled feet.

Eventually, virtue became wearisome, the rigors of his long ride caught up with him and he excused himself from the festivities, removing his dress tunic as soon as he'd left the hall, and slinging it over his shoulder. He decided to stop by his father's library on his way up to bed, to see if he could find something to read for a while before turning in. But instead of a book, he found another opportunity to work on the list a bit further.

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Nimrien daughter of Ohtar had become Prince Adrahil's ward at the tender age of six, her mother and father both perishing when their vessel foundered during a freak storm on what should have been a routine return from a business trip to Minas Tirith. Ohtar, one of Adrahil's close friends, was a man of excellent pedigree but little property, having been a fourth son of an already impoverished line. A proud man, he had served as a captain in the Swan Knights until he received a crippling wound in a skirmish with the Haradrim that ended his career as a warrior, whereupon he had continued to earn his way as Adrahil's steward.

Upon his death, his unmarried sister Tirathiel had come from Minas Tirith to care for the heartbroken young girl. Nimrien had grown up within the castle, treated as family by the Prince. Ten years younger than Finduilas, she adored the Princess of Dol Amroth as a glamorous older sister; five years younger than Imrahil, she had become the pesky younger sibling who wanted to follow her grand, brave big brother everywhere. Imrahil smiled at the memory of long summer days spent along the shore, Nimrien clad in a pair of his outgrown breeches, wading in the surf and searching for shells.

Over the years, the gawky girl had turned into a self-possessed young woman, who, despite the fact that the Lord of Dol Amroth would have gladly taken care of her, had been determined to make her own way. She had apprenticed herself to a bookbinder for a number of years, learning how to bind and preserve books, and when her training was complete, had applied to Adrahil for a job maintaining and restoring his library. The Prince, impressed with her initiative, agreed, and paid her a stipend that enabled her to live comfortably with her aunt in a small house of her own with an attached garden hard by the castle walls.

Tirathiel too, had helped with the library, being a renowned scholar, and having a fine copying hand. After the death of the Princess, her duties had expanded, and she had become Adrahil's chatelaine and hostess. Adrahil's care of Ohtar's family had been repaid many times over the years, for Tirathiel and Nimrien were fiercely devoted to him, doing much to make his life easier--certainly more, Imrahil admitted to himself in his rare moments of honest self-examination, than he had.

And though she had always been about, even underfoot when younger, and he had often conversed with her most enjoyably about many subjects, Imrahil had never thought of Nimrien as aught but a sister. Until now, when he looked upon her with eyes that had become accustomed over the last few weeks to assessing young women as potential wives--and realized that the solution to his problem had been in Dol Amroth the whole time.

__

Not only is she on Father's list, he thought gleefully, _but she is near a daughter to him already! She is of the best blood, she is respected at court, she is wise, industrious and not uncomely. She knows me already, and likes me well enough. We could be wed within the month, and have an heir by early autumn. And I would be free to sail again....._

"Were you looking for something, Imrahil?" Nimrien inquired, turning from where she had been shelving a book to look at him curiously. _You, my lady, _he mused silently, though of course he said nothing of the kind aloud. Her dress of dark plum wool was unornamented, but a good foil for her cloudy dark hair and eyes that seemed to have the faintest tinge of purple to their grey, and it clung to her slender curves in a most becoming manner. White linen over sleeves protected the sleeves of her dress, and her hair was twisted back from her face in an impromptu knot, by which Imrahil deduced she was actually working.

"I was looking for something to read before bed. Whatever are you doing working so late, lady? Why are you not down in the hall dancing with the rest?"

"You know that I do not care for court affairs, Imrahil," she replied. "Besides, this new shipment of books came in today. I wanted to place them into the collection tonight so that I could take the day off tomorrow. It looks to be one of the last warm, pleasant days, and I want to put my garden to bed for the winter."

"Is there anything there I might like to read?" She came back over to the desk, sorted through the stack of books there, pristine in fresh bindings of Dol Amroth blue, and handed him one.

"Here. A commentary and overview of the wars with the Easterlings. You have not read this particular author, have you?" He examined the title page, leafed through the first chapter quickly, and shook his head.

"No, lady, I have not. My thanks."

"You are welcome." She picked up another book and returned to the shelves to place it. Imrahil cocked a hip up on the desk and watched her. The book's proper home was apparently upon a high shelf, and she had to stretch to reach it, for Nimrien was short for a woman of pure Numenorean blood. Imrahil quite enjoyed the view of trim ankles exposed when she finally managed to shelve it. Turning back around, she discovered him still there, watching her, and her cheeks flushed. In an irritated voice, she asked, "Did you require anything else, my lord?"

"No, I just wished to pass the time with you for a bit. I have not seen you in quite a while."

Nimrien returned to the desk for another book. "That is hardly my fault," she declared, her voice still tart. "I certainly have not gone anywhere." Imrahil inclined his head to her.

"That is true. I apologize for my neglect." He reached for the topmost book on the pile just as she did, saw the glare she gave him, and thought better of it, sitting back, assuming a fearful expression, and raising his hands with exaggerated slowness. The corner of her mouth, slightly too wide for beauty but definitely of great sensual possibility, twitched upward. "I take it you have heard of my father's ultimatum?" he asked. Nimrien laughed aloud.

"The ultimatum, and the list? Most definitely. It is all that anyone talks about around here any more. 'Are you on the list?' 'Is she on the list?' 'Was she crossed off the list?' 'Why would the Prince put HER on the list?' And so forth and so on."

"You are on the list."

"I know that. And you may cross me off of it."

"Whatever for?"

"Because I do not wish to be the Princess of Dol Amroth. I do not care for the silliness of court life. You know that."

Taken aback at this sudden roadblock in his very neat plan, Imrahil blurted, "But you could have anything you wanted!"

"I already have everything I need."

"Nimrien, I would rather marry someone I know well, like you, than a complete stranger! Are we not friends?"

"Of course we are friends, Imrahil." She picked up the book, and moved to another section of the shelves to put it away. "I simply do not wish to be your wife. If you were actually asking, of course."

"I....suppose that I was."

"Then the answer is no."

"Because you do not wish to be the Princess of Dol Amroth, or because you do not wish to be my wife?"

"Both."

"Will you tell me why?"

"No, for if I do, then I fear that we will not even be friends." She shelved the book, and returned for another, but Imrahil halted her with a hand upon her arm. They were almost eye to eye with him perching upon the desk, and he gave her one of his most charming, earnest looks.

"I should like to think that our friendship would survive a little discussion," he coaxed, knowing well his powers of persuasion, and hoping that if he could get her talking, he could bring her around to his point of view. "If you have some reservations about being wed to me, I should like to hear what they are."

Nimrien, however, seemed immune to his charms. She pulled herself from his grasp, and gave him an almost grim look.

"Very well then, since you have asked for the truth, I will give it to you--at least the truth as I see it. But you will not like what I have to say. I do not wish to wed you because I do not want to be merely a convenience to the man I marry. I do not wish to be the Princess of Dol Amroth if it means that I must remain here, do your duty for you and administer your realm while you gallivant all over sea and land in search of adventure. And I most particularly do not want to be your wife if it means that I must be faithful to you alone, whilst you dally with whores and come to me with their scent still upon you when you need another heir." Stunned, Imrahil stared at her as she resumed the task he had interrupted, and selected the next book.

"I love you, Imrahil, you were like a brother to me," she continued. "I adored and idolized you when you were a boy protecting me from bullies. But you have not grown into the man you could and should have been. You are self-absorbed, selfish, lecherous and vain. You shirk your duties to your realm, and cause your father heartache and pain when you should be his chiefest help. If I marry at all, it will be to a man of honor."

"I am a man of honor, lady!" Imrahil protested angrily. "I have spent the last ten years risking my life to keep Dol Amroth safe! How dare you say I am not honorable!"

"You have spent the last ten years risking your life because you would rather do that than apply yourself to the more boring aspects of governance, Imrahil," Nimrien replied sharply, clasping the book to her chest. "How many courts have you sat upon in judgement in during the last ten years? Have you ever overseen the collection of the taxes that pay for your clothes and horses and whores? Do you even understand where the money comes from? How often have you gone out among the common folk and listened to their concerns? Since your mother died, and Finduilas wed, your father has become increasingly burdened and lonely, and you pay no heed. Prince Adrahil has been as a father to me since my own died, and I love him dearly. That you treat him so makes me very angry, and for that reason as well, I would not marry you!"

"It is strange that you are the only person who appears to feel this way," Imrahil declared icily. "No one else thinks I am remiss in my duty! The other young ladies I have talked to, and their families, think I am a most excellent fellow!"

"Then wed one of them, and I wish you joy of her! I wish her joy too, though she is not likely to get it, poor girl! But how likely is it that they, or their fathers, would dare to take you to task, even if they did feel that you were shirking? And they may very well not--warriors are well thought of. I judge by a different standard, I guess." Nimrien scrubbed at her eyes suddenly with her free hand. "Valar! I swore to myself I would never speak of this to you! No sense marring what we have speaking of something that cannot be mended! I give you a good night, my lord!" And she laid the book down, curtseyed and fled the room, leaving a rather shocked Imrahil behind.

In the silence after her hasty departure, the Heir of Dol Amroth moved around the desk and sank into the chair there. Rummaging idly through the stack of new books, he pondered her words._ You have not grown into the man you could and should have been_. _You are self-absorbed, selfish, lecherous and vain._ They struck him to the heart, but in a way that was not entirely bad, for they lanced straight to the place deep inside of him where, for the last several years, he had been repressing the knowledge that he was in fact, shirking his duty, laying it bare to the light at last. He suddenly understood that he had been trying to assuage his guilt and prove his worth with increasingly bolder and more dangerous forays against pirates and corsairs, and that his last battle had been foolhardy in the extreme, his foe having a larger vessel and a huge crew of cutthroats. He had been victorious, but that victory had nearly cost him his life and Andrahar's. It had certainly cost the lives of a large number of his crew, men who had died, he now realized with dawning horror, just so that he might feel better about himself..

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She sees me clear, he said to himself bleakly, _where no one else does. She sees the disappointment that I truly am._ He thought back over the negotiations of the last several weeks, the things that fathers had offered him to consider their daughters; ships, gold, grain, wine, lands, a fine Rohirric stallion (that one had sorely tempted him). None of those people thought the less of him--on the other hand, none of them thought he could be any more than what he already was. Only Nimrien had dared to confront him with what he had become, when even his own father had been silent. A thought occurred to him then, with crystal clarity.

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She brings with her no dowry but the truth. And what commodity was more precious to a prince, surrounded by sycophants as men of power always were? The quiet voice of reason that he possessed but seldom listened to spoke suddenly. It spoke of the possibility of love, of great joy. It told him that he had found the thing he had been searching for for the last two months. He thought of her wild cloud of hair, her nose with the bump on the bridge of it, the purple shadows in her eyes, the slender grace of her figure and the sweetness of her voice, and a strange new ache arose beneath his breastbone. His mouth curving up into a sad smile, he picked up the book she'd selected for him, and left the library.


	2. Chapter Two

"What would it take, Nimrien?" he asked the next day, standing in her garden as she turned the earth, clad in an old brown dress, her hair bound up tightly. "What would it take to make you wed me?"

Nimrien sighed, stuck her spade in the ground and regarded him, hands on hips. "Imrahil, what has come over you? Belfalas is filled with maidens who would jump at the chance to marry you, and here you stand harassing the only one who would not! This is not some sort of ruse on my part to intrigue you and attract your attention! I do NOT wish to make a marriage of convenience! I want a real marriage, where my husband and I love and cleave only unto each other. I do not wish to ally myself with you and the entire population of the Street of Desires."

Imrahil ran a hand distractedly through his hair. "Could we leave the ladies of pleasure alone for a moment? Seriously, Nimrien, what would it take to make you consider marriage with me?"

"For a start, a good impression would be made if you actually picked up a spade and helped me! There is another one in the shed." Though her tone was brusque, Nimrien's eyes were twinkling, surely an encouraging sign. He did as he was commanded, and spent some time digging carefully according to her instructions, discarding some dead, dried, brown plants as weeds, while carefully digging around others that, to his inexpert eyes, looked exactly like the weeds.

"You have not answered my question," he reminded her when they were taking a brief rest.

"I have been thinking," she replied, somewhat primly. "In the first place, Imri," and he brightened slightly at her use of the diminutive, "I cannot simply 'leave the ladies of pleasure alone.' If I marry a man, I will expect him to be faithful to me as I am to him."

Imrahil grinned. "Wilwarin says that the blood runs cold in the ladies of Numenor, and that is why their husbands seek her out." Nimrien gave him a dry look.

"Is Wilwarin one of your lady friends?" When he nodded somewhat sheepishly, she laughed, which was not the reaction he had expected. "Well, she would hardly say otherwise now, would she? It would be bad for business! Why should a lady of the evening tell a man that he could have a satisfying relationship with his wife if only he'd expend a little effort? Far more profitable for her to say, 'Oh you poor dear, it's not your fault, your high-bred wife is a cold fish! But come to me and I will warm you up right well!'" Imrahil stared at her for a moment, incredulous, then burst out laughing himself.

"You have a very valid point there! I had never considered the.....business angle of things! What you are saying then, is that you expect me to cease seeing my....lady friends, as you put it?" Nimrien nodded.

"I think that if you could show that you were capable of keeping your breeches buttoned for a certain period of time, it would go a long way towards reassuring me that we could make a good marriage. But Imri, I will warn you now, that if I did agree to wed you, I would expect you to be faithful to me for the rest of our lives. I will have a true marriage, not some sham of a political one. If you do not think you could live with this, then we need not discuss this matter any further."

"What would you do, if we were to wed, and you found out later that I was unfaithful?" Imrahil asked, curious. Nimrien's response to him was prompt and matter-of-fact.

"From the day I discovered that you had been unfaithful, you could never be certain that any child I bore after that was actually yours. And you would never know exactly who I was seeing, for I can be extremely discreet and devious. Trust me on that."

He stared at her for a moment, nonplussed. Little Nimrien of the seashore had apparently become a young woman with a core of steel in her. "Very well. I would have to keep my breeches buttoned. What else?"

Nimrien picked up her spade, and resumed her digging. "I have seen women marry men, thinking that they could change them if only they loved them enough. It very seldom works. The love of a woman does not change a man in and of itself, although it can make him wish to change. The final decision is his. Since I object to the way that you have treated your father, I would be willing to accept your proposal of marriage if you can behave as a proper prince for a period of, say...... six months. And refrain from seeing other women during that same period of time."

Imrahil also began digging again. "You realize that none of the other ladies I have interviewed have burdened me with such demands, don't you?"

"The other ladies wish to be the Princess of Dol Amroth, and are willing to put up with almost anything you do, so long as they have access to your money and power. I am not."

"You have a good opinion of yourself, Nimrien." She lifted her chin, and looked him in the eye.

"That is because I am worth the winning, Imrahil. There, you now have my ultimatum as well as your father's --if you wish to wed me, then you will apply yourself to your mundane duties as prince, and cease to see other women for a period of six months, starting from today. Take it or leave it."

For a moment, he considered leaving it. Still smarting over his father's command, her demands were salt in a still fresh wound. Then that quiet inner voice spoke again, and he heard himself say aloud, "Very well then, my lady. I will take it." He gave her a very intense, very direct look--and a promise. "And in six months' time, I will take you as well." Blushing suddenly from something other than exercise, Nimrien resumed her digging with great vigor.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

His father's surprise and gratitude the next day at breakfast, when Imrahil announced his intention to help him in any way he could while he was confined to land, were both discomfiting and slightly embarrassing. And the alacrity with which he produced a list of assignments for Imrahil was dismaying. There was apparently no paucity of work to keep the Heir busy. His first assignment, as the winter closed in, was to make rounds of the towns and villages, checking the reported harvest tallies and collecting assessed taxes.

This task involved days of riding in increasingly bitter weather, and was not finished until the week before Yule, when the taxes were historically presented to the Prince. He rode with Andrahar, and a heavy guard of Swan Knights, as the wagon which held the monies became increasingly heavily laden. His relief when they finally got their precious burden back to the city was short-lived when he discovered that, as the chief collector, he then had to sit down with the Prince's man of accounts, and double- and triple-check everything. The task was not completed until Yule Eve, when Adrahil then went over things, and declared himself satisfied.

The Yule feast was as magnificent as it ever was, and the ceremony of the return of the light as deeply satisfying, but Imrahil found the holiday a bit strange, knowing that he could not partake of his usual habit of ending the night at one of his favorite houses. And after six weeks on the road, he was feeling the lack of feminine company. Since the age of fifteen, if he had needed to satisfy an urge, the means to do so had always been readily available. Now it was denied him, and the four and a half months that stretched before him seemed an eternity. Not to mention the fact that he really had no idea what sort of wife Nimrien would make him, insofar as intimate matters were concerned.

She was of course at the dinner that night, in a dress of holly green, her hair loose about her shoulders, and doing her best to ignore his glances down the table at her. It had been his intention to claim her for a dance after the ceremony. Festive music rose in the hall, dispelling the solemnity of the occasion, and the tables were swiftly removed so that the dancing might begin. The hum of cheerful chatter filled the huge chamber. But when he looked about for her, she was nowhere to be found.

After a futile search in the hallways nearest the great hall, he decided to try the library, and there she was, reading a book by the fire. Her head jerked up in surprise as he entered.

"I had hoped to claim a dance with you, Nimrien," he said, mock sorrowful. "I know you to be light on your feet. Why ever are you hiding up here?"

"It was getting too rowdy down in the hall to suit me, so I decided to come up here for a while," she replied in her prim way. Imrahil thought about the jollility happening downstairs, particularly the embraces, clandestine and otherwise, that were happening because of Yule fervor, and grinned. An idea occurred to him.

"Ah well. Lose one opportunity, gain another, that is what I always say," he declared, moving over to her chair. She looked up at him with faint alarm.

"What are you talking about?"

"Why, just that I have been thinking, and it seems to me only fair that you give me some indication of exactly what it is that I will be receiving if I meet all your demands successfully. A sample, as it were. Something to inspire further good behavior."

"A sample?" she asked uneasily. Her grey eyes were very wide, and her cheeks flushed; not, he thought, from the heat of the fire. Imrahil smiled.

"Yes, a sample. Or a Yule gift, if you would have it so. One kiss. A not unreasonable request, do you not think?" Nimrien blinked, and swallowed hard, her usual self-assurance vanished.

"No, it seems not unreasonable," she conceded, though with some trepidation. Imrahil crooked a finger at her.

"Up with you then." She rose slowly to her feet, setting the book down carefully upon the seat of the chair as she did so. They were toe to toe, and her head came up to the bottom of his chin--the perfect height for a woman, he thought with some satisfaction. Her already wide eyes widened even further when he slid an arm about her slender waist, splaying a hand over the laces at the small of her back, and drawing her close to him. His other hand stroked the snowy column of her throat for a moment, feeling her pulse tremble beneath his fingers like a frightened bird. Then he tipped her chin up, and bent and touched his lips to hers.

Her lips were warm, and supple, and tasted faintly of the wine she'd drunk at dinner, with a hint of spice cake. He'd half expected her to tighten them, to shut her mouth firmly, but she did not. Their breaths commingled, and when he dared to gently slip his tongue past her lips, they parted and allowed him entrance. He groaned, felt her whimper in response, and tightened his arm, drawing her up hard against him. His other hand slid up into the midnight masses of her hair, holding her head in place, denying her any chance to escape--not that she seemed to be attempting it. Her tongue tangled with his tentatively, and her mouth opened even further. He felt her slender body sag heavily against him as her knees went weak.

__

So much for Wilwarin's assertions about the fires of Numenor, he thought hazily, as he plundered her mouth for what seemed an eternity. _Here, at least, is one hearth they're well stoked upon._ It was only the eventual realization that if he didn't stop this, there was a good chance that he would lay his father's ward down upon the expensive Haradrim carpet and have her right then and there, that made him disengage from the kiss, pulling back and mastering himself with the greatest of difficulty.

Nimrien stood dazedly within the circle of his arms, her lips red and slightly swollen from the force of the kiss, her chest heaving. He slowly let his arms drop, making sure that she was steady on her feet before he released her entirely, and looked down at her with satisfaction.

"I thank you, lady, for that. I now know what I am striving for, and am well pleased. You too, know something of what you will be getting, and I hope you are not disappointed."

"No, Imri, I am not disappointed," she gasped, still flushed. "A merry Yule to you." And for the second time, she curtseyed and suddenly fled the library. Imrahil watched her go, grinning and most pleased with himself at having finally rattled her self-possession--until the tightness of his breeches showed him that his ruse had had unanticipated consequences. It took several circuits of the castle battlements in the chill evening air before he mastered himself enough that he could return to his rooms and actually hope to get some sleep.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

After the turning of the year, Imrahil continued aiding his father, mostly riding out to the towns to sit in judgement upon cases that required the Prince's attention. It had always been Adrahil's habit to periodically do a circuit of his lands for that purpose, rather than requiring that plaintiffs come to Dol Amroth, as was the habit of most monarchs. The Prince had claimed that it was far easier for him to travel in comfort and security than the least of his subjects. Admirable though that sentiment was, being relieved of the necessity of traveling abroad at the coldest time of year did much towards relieving the Prince's stress, and he began to sleep and eat better. Upon seeing the definite improvement, and the lessening of the lines of stress in his father's face, Imrahil felt guilt anew, for he had truly never noticed how tired and strained Adrahil had become.

His own stress, however, increased dramatically, for some of the cases were civil matters concerning large amounts of property, and others were criminal cases involving life and death. Adrahil assured him that he could pass anything he did not feel competent to judge along to him, but Imrahil was determined to do the best that he could. This necessitated much research into Gondorian law, and it had been a long time since he'd fancied himself any sort of scholar. Now, he spent so much time reading and researching that he had to consciously make the time each day to spar with Andrahar, that he not grow soft and unaccustomed to weapons.

He caught a glimpse of Nimrien once or twice during these sessions, and Andrahar used the distraction each time to promptly drop him on the ground. Other than those sightings at a distance, he did not see her. She was never in the library when he went in search of books, and he could not find her anywhere else. She seemed determined that he not find her alone again, though whether that was because she did not trust him after their Yuletide kiss, or did not trust herself with him, he did not know.

The books began arriving on his desk a couple of weeks into January, and they were his only contact with her. The housemaid who cleaned his quarters apparently brought them, though they were selected by Nimrien. There was no note or communication of any sort with them, but they were always pertinent to whatever case he was seeing, and the passages that would be most useful were book marked with torn strips of paper. How it was that she knew so intimately what he was doing he did not know--he suspected that Tirathiel, the all-knowing and all-seeing had something to do with it, but could not find out for certain. It did remind him of Nimrien's assertion that she could be both devious and discreet.

Halfway through February, having apparently recovered her equanimity, Nimrien reappeared, and began bringing him the books herself. They then spent many cold and rainy afternoons in his study, discussing the details of cases he was to judge. He found her to be intelligent in the extreme, with an impressive memory, and an incisive way getting to the heart of a matter. She would not, however, allow him any further liberties or kisses, saying that he'd had more than enough of a sample to judge her suitability as a wife. Imrahil tried to bear this with good humor, but he was beginning to feel somewhat.....lonely. It did not help that every time he rode back into the City, his route took him right past the Fairweather, and Wilwarin and her friends would often call to him out of the windows.

Andrahar, noticing his unease, took him out drinking one night, to a tavern that was not a house of pleasure. After they'd both had a couple of rounds, he addressed his Prince's problem.

"If I understand the agreement correctly, Lady Nimrien commanded that you should not see any _women_ for six months," he noted casually. Imrahil gave him an incredulous look.

"What do you propose I do, Andra? Find a boy? Or were you volunteering your services again? You know how well that worked out the last time we tried it."

"We are both rather older now." _And my feelings for you have certainly not changed one whit over the years....._

As if he had read Andrahar's thought, Imrahil smiled with sad understanding and said, "As you well know, when all is said and done, I am simply a man for women. Though I thank you for the offer." Andrahar took a deep drink from his tankard, strove mightily to suppress his disappointment without seeming to be doing so, and nodded thoughtfully.

"It was certainly the case upon that occasion, though you confuse me sometimes, Imrahil. You burned hot enough for the Elf-lord when you were a lad." The sudden flush in Imrahil's cheeks was not, Andrahar thought, due entirely to the beer.

"That was just....... a boyish fixation," he said at last. "And it was Gildor, after all. I think it is something of a family tradition, to be attracted to Gildor. From things Father has said, I think he did the same in his time as well."

"Really?" Andrahar was intrigued. Close as he was to the royal house of Dol Amroth, this was the first time he had heard of that. "Well, the offer stands, in any event. She truly did not say anything about sleeping with men." Imrahil chuckled ruefully.

"I rather doubt, well-read though she is, that she even knows such things occur, Andra. And I chose to interpret her ultimatum in its spirit, rather than the actual wording. She wished me to refrain from sleeping with anyone for six months, so that she would know that I was disciplined enough that I could be faithful to her. To my way of thinking, that precludes sleeping with you, other men or boys, or any of the larger sorts of domestic livestock."

Even with the long-held ache paining his heart once more, Andrahar had to laugh. "Oh Imri, I fear you have fallen hard at last." Imrahil gave him a glum look, and took another drink.

"Andra, I fear you may be right."

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Spring always came first to Dol Amroth, and moved inland from the coast. By March, the crocuses were gone and the flowers of earliest spring were in full bloom. Imrahil spent some time helping Nimrien with her garden, rather intrigued to find that the dead, brown, scruffy clumps were in fact sprouting green shoots. He got a crick in his back, and an entirely new set of blisters, and decided in the end that he preferred his role in horticultural processes to be restricted to telling his gardeners where he wanted his rose bushes planted.

Nimrien laughed at his complaints, but in a good-natured sort of way. They were spending a great deal of time in each other's company, and tongues were wagging, but aside from catching the occasional soft-eyed look from her, he could get no indication from her that her heart was warming to him. And when, in a fit of frustration, he pressed the issue one day, he angered her.

They were in the library as usual, when he took her to task, and her outrage was instantaneous. She leaped to her feet and leaned over the desk on her arms, looming over him, if such a dainty lady could be said to loom. "On the eighth of November, you were told what it would take to win me, and you may not speak to me of marriage until after the eighth of May--providing you fulfill the promise you made me!" she declared. "Whether I love you or not is not the issue, Imri--I will not wed you until you prove yourself to me!"

Imrahil, quick to anger in his turn, slammed the book he'd been searching through shut, for he knew that ill treatment of the volume would annoy her, and she did, in fact, flinch when he did it. "I should just like to know if you actually have any feeling for me, Nimrien! For when you first told me what I must do to win you, I was angered and irritated. I asked myself why I should put up with such treatment. The only answer I could come up with was because I did in fact love you, which was not an easy admission for me to make." Nimrien's expression, angry a moment before, softened somewhat.

"I have already told you that I love you, Imrahil, and that I always have--do you forget so quickly?" she asked quietly. "And part of me wants very much to say, 'Very well, you have done enough to prove your good faith, let us go on with this.'." She held up a hand to forestall him from speaking. "But that would do neither of us any good. This time is not only so that you may prove yourself to me, but that you may be certain yourself that this is what you want. Can you not see that? Can you deny that you have found these last four months to be a bit of a....strain?"

"No," he replied, still a bit curtly. Nimrien straightened, and walked over to the fire, which she stared into thoughtfully.

"For fifteen years, you have taken pleasure with whomsoever you pleased whenever you wished to do so. That is a very strong, very ingrained habit that has endured for half your life. I do not think that six months is too long a trial to ask of you. In truth, it may not be long enough. And it may also be true that, in the end, you will decide that you would prefer to make a marriage of convenience with a woman who would tolerate your dalliances--and not be quite so difficult!" Imrahil chuckled at that, despite his irritation, and Nimrien turned and gave him a sweet, sad smile.

"I hope that you do not decide that, for even if you do, I will still love you, and I do not know if I will ever meet anyone else I could love as well. Please keep your vow, Imri--for both our sakes."

Moved by her plea, he got up and went to her, then hesitantly took her into his arms. She did not rebuff him, as he'd half expected, but instead, linked her arms about his neck, and tucked her head beneath his chin. They stood thusly for several long moments, before Imrahil murmured to the top of her head, "I shall endeavor not to fail you, my lady."

Her reply, when it came, was a whisper he had to strain to hear. "I would very much appreciate that, my lord."


	3. Chapter Three

In mid-March, Prince Adrahil received a message from his son-in-law, the Steward of Gondor, saying that he was to meet with a representative of the Haradrim government down in Pelargrir to discuss the renewal of the current peace treaty. Adrahil's presence at the negotiating table was requested.

Imrahil offered to stay behind and see to things at home, as he had certainly not been invited, but Adrahil asked him to come along anyway.

"You have been to Umbar and parts south more recently than I, and I think that perhaps your insight would be useful to Denethor," he said with a smile.

"Denethor thinks I am an impetuous hot-head, Father," Imrahil chuckled, as they sat together in his father's study. "I doubt he would thank you for bringing me."

"Whether he thanks me or not, Imri, you are coming. He says that Finduilas and the boys will be there as well, and since he seldom lets them come home, it would be a chance for you to see them. Besides, I have a feeling that you should come." The Heir, gladdened at the prospect of seeing his beloved sister and nephews again, nonetheless gave his father a curious look, wondering if the "feeling" was one of the precognitive visions their House was prone to. Adrahil's expression was unrevealing, but his tone of voice had indicated that he would not be thwarted in this matter. Not that Imrahil intended to argue--any opportunity to journey forth, even if it resulted in having to keep company with his stuffy brother-in-law and a bunch of equally stuffy Haradrim diplomats, was preferable to remaining mewed in Dol Amroth.

"I had thought that Nimrien might accompany us as well," Adrahil continued calmly, ignoring his son's sudden sharp stare, "since she and Finduilas love each other dearly, and have not seen each other in such a long time. Besides, Finduilas will then have someone to keep her company while we men are about our business."

"How very thoughtful of you, Father," Imrahil murmured, straight-faced. "I am sure that Finduilas will be overjoyed to see her again." His father cleared his throat and frowned in a manner that suggested he was repressing a smile.

"Not to mention that it will give you further opportunities to woo the young lady--if that is in fact what you are doing." Imrahil laughed.

"I think it might be more accurate to say that Nimrien is deciding if she wishes to be wooed! It was rather dismaying to discover what her opinion of me truly was! I have fallen considerably in her estimation since I was a lad!"

"You appear to be going to some effort to redeem yourself in her eyes, and that pleases me," Adrahil declared. "Nimrien has been the daughter of my heart for a long time. It would delight me greatly to make her my daughter-in-law." He gave Imrahil a somber look. "I feared, when I first gave you my ultimatum, that you would spend these months chafing in futile rebellion, and that I would indeed, have to select a wife for you. It pleases me more than I can say, that you have been so industrious and constructive. And you have been a great help to me these last few months. I appreciate it, and thank you for it, my son."

Imrahil shook his head, flushing a little. "There is no call for thanks, Father. I have done nothing more than I should have been doing all these years. Nothing praiseworthy in that. 'Tis I who should thank you for your tolerance." Adrahil sighed.

"In truth, Imrahil, the one thing I never understood was your insistence on going out to find a fight. We are going to Pelargrir to hopefully make peace for another four or five years, but I think you know that in the end it will not hold. The Darkness in the East will rise, and call to its long-time vassals in the South, and we will either win one more day in the sun for our people or fall overwhelmed at last. I do not know if it will happen in my reign or in yours, but in either event, I fear that you will spend most of your life in battle. Treasure your peace while it lasts, my lad. Enjoy it, for it is a frail and transient thing."

Imrahil looked out the window, down into the courtyard. Nimrien was walking towards the castle, her cloak clutched close over what looked to be two or three books. He smiled.

"I begin to understand what you mean, Father."

Pelargir was two week's ride by carriage on good roads, and the roads of Belfalas were good ones, as Imrahil had cause to know, having recently acquainted himself with the contracts for building and repair. Dol Amroth was a wealthy principality, partly because of natural advantages and partly because Adrahil and his forbears had not scanted the foundation that made business and trade easy and profitable. And while it could certainly support Imrahil's brothel bill, and indeed the brothel bills of several of his non-existent brothers, the Heir was beginning to realize that there were more sensible expenditures that could be made, expenditures that actually returned money for the investment.

Nimrien and Prince Adrahil kept each other company within the royal coach, reading and playing chess on a travel board while Imrahil rode in armor with the Swan Knights and Andrahar outside. Nimrien had brought a large trunk of books with her, and it rode, swathed in oilskins, on the roof of the coach. A fine pony, intended as a gift for young Boromir, a palfrey and the Prince's favorite horse were tethered behind the coach, and from time to time Nimrien or the Prince would ride for a while at Imrahil's side. The rest of the time, the Heir was forced to endure the jibes of his fellow knights about his newer, softer life style. These did not cease-- until, over a period of several days, he defeated most of them in the morning sparring practices. Though he knew that Nimrien did not particularly value martial prowess, he was nonetheless pleased to see her watching him on a couple of occasions.

Andrahar, seeing this, would not comment other than to tsk loudly, like a friend seeing another friend rush headlong into folly. And try to take him down, if he could.

Cold rain sleeted down for the first four days of the journey, then the weather cleared and the chilly, pale sun of early Spring shone over the caravan. Not being wet brightened the spirits of the travelers, and when a warm spell came in the latter part of the trip, they rose even more. Adrahil spent more time during the last days outside of the coach than in, chatting with his son about the details of the treaty and all sorts of other subjects. Imrahil, who had not spent a prolonged period of time with his father since he had got his first command, was surprised to find that they had much in common, and were of one mind about many things. He found himself simply enjoying Adrahil's company, and really not worrying overmuch about when he would be able to return to the sea or to battle.

His chats with Nimrien also continued to be enjoyable, and covered many topics. One day he chided her a bit about all the books she had brought along, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed in the cool spring air.

"My lady must live in dreadful fear of boredom, to have carried so many books with her! Are we such dull company?"

"They are all books about the Haradrim, Imri!" Nimrien protested. "Everything we had upon their customs, language and history that I could find. I thought that they might be useful during the negotiations." Imrahil chuckled.

"Perhaps they shall be. Though I would hope that my lady would spare some time from her library to keep company with my sister and myself."

"You need have no fear of that, my lord," she replied soberly. "I love Lady Finduilas well, and am very much looking forward to seeing her again. In truth, I would have asked to come along, had not my lord Adrahil offered. I am somewhat concerned about your sister." He looked at her, surprised.

"Concerned about what?"

"I have written Finduilas on a regular basis for years now. And it used to be that she would write me back fairly regularly. But during this last pregnancy and afterwards, she has answered me less often and less swiftly. And when she has answered, the tone of her letters has seemed sad."

"Does she write of what is troubling her?" Imrahil inquired, feeling chilled suddenly for no reason that he could tell. Nimrien shook her head.

"No, she does not. And truthfully, it is not anything I can really put a finger on. But I deal in words, Imrahil, it is my stock and trade, and there is something troubling going on beneath the words she sends to me. I am hoping it is naught but a difficult pregnancy and weariness from dealing with a young child. I have heard that women sometimes grow sad after they have babies. And that they can stay that way for quite a long while afterwards." Her face reddened becomingly once more as her train of thought apparently leapt to her own future children. The Heir did not discomfit her further by commenting upon this, but he thought it a hopeful sign.

"I have heard such as well," he agreed. "May I rely upon you to try and discern the nature of her malady, while we are in Pelargir? For if it is something that may be amended by some action of Father or myself, we stand ready to do all in our power to bring her to joy once more." Nimrien nodded.

"I have in fact spoken of this already to your father. He too has been troubled by the letters he has received." Her brows lowered and her face assumed a resolute expression. "I intend to get to the bottom of this matter, since we see her so rarely anymore. It is for this very reason that I was glad to accompany you on this journey."

"Oh dear. And here I was thinking you accepted because you wished the pleasure of my company," Imrahil murmured, grinning raffishly. Nimrien gave him a considering stare.

"No, my first purpose was to see Finduilas again, and my second purpose was to aid the Prince with any information I could provide him. The pleasure of your company was third, no, make that fourth, on my list. I am also hoping to practice speaking Haradric with someone other than Andra."

At which point the Prince ceded the battle to her, laughingly declaring that he had been quite put in his place, bowed in the saddle, and spurred forward to the front with the rest of his men. So he did not see the longing look she directed at him as he rode away.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Pelargir, long the greatest haven of the Faithful, and the city from which the Numenoreans had set sail to conquer the kingdoms of lesser men, lay upon the wedge of land between Anduin the Great and the mouth of the River Sirith. She was an old city, and a decadent one, and one that Imrahil was more than a little fond of. Many were the times he had put into port here to resupply at the end of a perilous journey, and many were the nights of pleasure he had enjoyed between voyages--as he was rather forcibly reminded upon entering her once more.

The Dol Amroth party had arrived in the early afternoon, crossing the magnificent bridge that spanned the Sirith, like unto the mangled one that still spanned the ruins of Osgiliath. It was a warm afternoon, almost warm enough to make wearing armor slightly oppressive. Adrahil and Nimrien had played chess earlier in the day, but then, after the noon meal, Imrahil had looked into the coach to see that both of them were napping sitting up. He made a note to himself to inform Nimrien that she did in fact snore, though it was a very soft and melodic one. On the whole, he did not think it would be any impediment to sleeping in the same bed with her.

The sound the carriage made when clattering over the bridge woke his father and prospective betrothed, who looked out the window with interest as they moved into the city. Imrahil, listening to his father answer her eager questions was smiling--until the first voice calling his name echoed over the water.

"Imrahil! Imrahil, darling! Over here!" He looked across the river to a stately house, whose two floors each had verandahs. Upon those verandahs lounged young women of pleasure of the most expensive variety--most of whom he knew personally. As the first young lady's calls drew the attentions of her co-workers, they leapt up and waved scarves and handkerchiefs. Judging by their attire, or lack of it, several of them had been taking advantage of the warm weather to sunbathe. It may have been intended as advertising, and if so, was certainly effective. A regular chorus of "Imrahil! Imrahil!" arose.

The Heir of Dol Amroth had forgotten that the Drunkard's Dream, his preferred resting place when in Pelargir, abutted the Sirith bridge, for he generally approached it from the docks on the Anduin side of town. Now he could do nothing but wave politely in return, while listening to Andrahar and the other Swan Knights snickering behind him. Daring to glance at the carriage only briefly, and just once, he found his father regarding the tableau with an air of genteel interest, and Nimrien dividing rather astonished looks between him and the courtesans.

"Gracious, Imrahil, have you patronized _all _of those young ladies? They certainly seem happy to see you." Prince Adrahil remarked gently, his eyes twinkling and mouth held hard against breaking into a smile. Imrahil suddenly realized that his fair and upright father was quite capable of getting his own back. "If so, then perhaps your entertainment bills are not as excessive as I thought--if one divides the total amount spent among such a large number of young women, they are actually rather reasonable." There was really no satisfactory response he could make to that, so he simply rode silently on with eyes straight ahead, trying to ignore the suppressed noises coming from the bodyguard at his back.

After they left the bridge, and the vicinity of the Drunkard's Dream, the carriage and escort traveled the main town road north until they had gone a considerable way upriver on the Anduin side. Skirting the dockside slums , they came into the most wealthy precincts of Pelargir, where ancient houses fronted tree-shaded promenades. The old King's House, wherein they would reside while discussing the treaty with the Haradrim, was not far away. Nobles and merchants, the wealthy and influential of the city, walked or rode here, to see or be seen. And here Imrahil's past caught up with him once again.

A slender, brightly-clad figure mounted on a fine blooded mare wheeled her horse from a knot of admirers that surrounded her, and cantered towards the Swan Knights. She spun her mount expertly once more when she arrived, and ended by riding stirrup to stirrup with Imrahil.

"My lord Prince," purred the contralto voice that belonged to the most renowned courtesan and dancer in Pelargir, " are you in the city long?" Honey skin glowed in the spring sun, her intricately braided black hair threw back blue highlights, and eyes of an odd, golden brown regarded him with a glowing heat that immediately kindled a reflexive warmth in his nether regions. Images from the nights he had spent with this woman, nights which were exercises in the excesses of passion, flitted through Imrahil's brain.

"Hello, Callia," he said at last with some difficulty. She noticed his reticence, and her eyebrow raised, then she cast a look at the coach, and the royal arms upon it and smiled in understanding.

"Your father is here, for the negotiations?"

"Yes. We will be here for a little while, it seems."

"Will you be able to find some time for me, while you are in town?" Imrahil could not help but smile in reminiscence. Callia charged a high price for her dancing, and an even higher one for access to her bed, but she was not available to just anyone who had the price, and she was extremely selective. Imrahil she always allowed into her presence, and upon one or two occasions, had even waived her fee. She was a demanding lover, and he was one of the few who could truly sate her.

"I fear not, lady, though it pains me to admit it. Father would like me to attend to the negotiations most closely--he feels that it will be an invaluable learning experience."

Callia was also renowned for her boldness, so he should not have been surprised at what happened next, as she dropped her mare back, slipped behind his stallion, and pulled even with the door of the coach. The Heir, glancing back, saw Andrahar flick his wrist to ready a knife. Andrahar, who of course knew of his relationship with Callia, nonetheless took nothing for granted when the royal family's safety was concerned.

"My lord prince!" the courtesan caroled gaily, "'Tis said you are a kind and generous man! Surely you can spare me your son for just one night!" Prince Adrahil looked upon her with a certain bemused appreciation, and responded politely.

"I fear he has the right of it, my lady--upon this trip at least, he will be busy with the negotiations." Callia's eye fell upon Nimrien, and narrowed.

"The negotiations, or this fine young lady?" Nimrien stared back at her curiously.

"The Lady Nimrien, daughter of Ohtar," Imrahil declared. "My father's archivist." He wished silently for a fissure to open up in the earth and swallow him, thus sparing him any further humiliation, but it was not to be. Callia's eyes brightened with a feline sort of malice.

"A lover of books, is she? Have you shown her that favorite of yours, Imrahil? _The_ _Garden of Love_? You will need to study Chapter Three most closely if you spend any time with him at all, my lady."

Andrahar chuckled quietly, and Prince Adrahil looked troubled. The book in question was a renowned Haradric volume about love-making techniques, and Chapter Three dealt with the entertaining things that could be done to one's partner with one's mouth. The Heir's heart plummeted into his stomach in despair--Nimrien would never forgive him for such public humiliation at the hands of one of his 'ladies', and he could not bear to look upon her shocked or angered face. So he was very much surprised when her reply came, calm and matter-of-fact.

"Actually, you are kind to recommend it, but I am already familiar with that book--we have a copy in the library at home. The Dol Amroth copy was illustrated by Hyandhil, who as you may know was much admired for his ability to depict the varying tones of flesh." Imrahil dared a careful glance in her direction to find her sitting up straight in the coach, her chin raised, and color high in her cheeks. But she met Callia's eyes squarely enough.

"Speaking of that particular book, I was wondering if I could not impose upon you for something?" she asked quietly. The courtesan gave her a curious look. "You look like the sort of person who would know this. That business in Chapter Eight with the man, the woman, and the horse? Is that even possible? For it looks both uncomfortable, and unlikely." Mind boggling, Imrahil nearly toppled off of his own mount.

Callia laughed. Malice had been replaced with amusement. "Indeed, it is possible, my lady--I did it once to win a wager." The Heir cringed internally, but Callia was merciful and did not speak further of who had wagered, or who her partner had been..... "But you are correct--love-making upon horse-back is rather uncomfortable. Not something that I would repeat for the pleasure of it."

"Then I shall rely upon an expert's opinion, and not consider myself deprived for not having tried it," came the almost prim response. Callia laughed again, louder this time.

"Indeed, my lady, you are not missing much! I had saddle-sores for a week in the strangest places!" Nimrien's eyes widened, but the courtesan was finished with trying to torment her and turned to Imrahil instead.

"I hope that you can find at least a few hours to spend with me, Imrahil," she purred, standing in her stirrups to speak close to his ear, a movement which incidentally gave him a magnificent view of her small but firmly rounded bosom. He felt that familiar flush once more, and Callia, noting this, smiled with satisfaction, resumed her seat, touched her heels to her mare, and cantered away.

There was a long moment of silence upon her departure, then Andrahar broke out laughing.

"Lady Nimrien," he chortled, "I had no idea you were so......knowledgeable." Nimrien gave him a flat stare very reminiscent of her formidable aunt.

"When I reached an age to be curious about such things, my aunt was very straightforward, and answered my questions as best she could."

"Surely she didn't let you read _The Garden of Love_!" Imrahil protested.

"No, I came across that volume some time later," Nimrien replied imperturbably. "when I had some questions that she could not answer."

"I can just imagine!" Andrahar exclaimed. "Having never married, those questions were probably the reason her hair turned grey!" Nimrien's stare became an affronted glare.

"Master Andrahar, you have done nothing but laugh at your lord's expense since we entered Pelargir. And I know for a fact that you are every bit as debauched as he is--in your own unique way. I suspect there is a street or two here where you are a popular man as well. Perhaps we should explore a couple of them?"

Andrahar actually paled a bit, and became very silent of a sudden. Quiet fell over the coach and escort, broken only by the clopping of horses' hooves. Then Prince Adrahil tipped his head back and began to laugh. He was still laughing when they pulled into the courtyard of the King's House.

The wall surrounding the King's House was tall, imposing and fortress-like, but the building itself was graceful enough, built foursquare around a central garden, with porches running all around, and with the tall windows necessary to catch the breeze in a place where summers could be oppressively hot. The White Tree of Gondor and the Black Serpent of Harad flew above it, and guards of both nationalities stood on duty at the gates, pulling them open for the Dol Amroth contingent.

As acting commander of the Swan Knights escorting his father, Imrahil suddenly had work to do, and he sent one contingent to survey the stables and begin to care for the horses, another to unload the baggage and assign rooms, and a single man up onto the 'ramparts' with a Swanship banner to be flown with the others. By the time he was done, and had dismounted, giving his mount into the charge of one of the other Knights, the Steward of Gondor was there along with his family, in a rare show of informality that Imrahil suspected had been orchestrated by his sister.

"My lord prince," Denethor was saying as he embraced Adrahil solemnly, "it is good of you to aid me in this matter when I know that there must be pressing matters in your own demesne."

"None so pressing that the peace of the realm does not take precedence, son," Adrahil replied easily, embracing the Steward in his turn with much more warmth. His father was apparently continuing his long-term and thus far futile effort to engage Denethor's affections, Imrahil realized, and wondered what he would do in the unlikely event he ever succeeded. But the Heir stopped worrying about that when he saw Finduilas, her youngest boy on her hip, almost run towards him with a great smile upon her face, followed closely by Boromir.

"Imri!" she cried, throwing her free arm about his neck, and kissing him soundly. He squeezed her firmly back, being careful not to crush his young nephew. There was less flesh and more bone under his arm than he remembered, and when he pulled back to look at her beloved face, he found it had thinned. But her eyes were sparkling with joy, and there was a becoming flush upon her cheeks as she surveyed him.

"Gracious, Imri! You're so brown! Have you been to sea all this time?"

"Not for several months. Is this great big fellow Faramir?" Contrary to his words, the child was a slender one, even at this chubby age, unlike his brother, who had been a big, solid fellow. Huge grey eyes surveyed Imrahil solemnly beneath a thatch of untidy black hair, and he gnawed upon a small finger thoughtfully for a few moments before suddenly reaching his arms out to his uncle. Finduilas looked surprised.

"You should be flattered, Imri--he doesn't take to strangers normally." Imrahil reached out, scooped him up, and settled him high upon his waist. A little hand reached out and stroked his cheek softly.

"But we are not strangers, Fin," he said, giving his nephew a warm smile. "I'm his Uncle Imri, and we're going to be great friends, aren't we Faramir?" Faramir said neither yea nor nay, but seemed quite content to stay where he was, his hand now twining in his uncle's hair. Imrahil looked down at Boromir, who was alternately casting glances at him, and across the courtyard, where a Swan Knight was leading the pony towards the stables.

"Hullo, Uncle Imrahil," he said, courtesy warring with curiosity. "You look very well. I hope that you have been successful in your pirate-chasing, and.......is that really a pony? A pony for me?"

"Boromir!" exclaimed his mother, scandalized, but Imrahil merely laughed.

"Yes, Boromir, it is a pony for you. For your birthday. Your grandfather got the pony for you, and I picked out the harness."

"But my birthday's not till the summer," the boy said, almost vibrating in place in his eagerness to lay hands upon the animal.

"Yes, but we knew we were coming here, and did not know if we'd be in Minas Tirith this summer, so we brought him now."

"Excellent!" Boromir exclaimed, and absolutely bouncing now, begged his mother, "Please, Mother, oh please may I go look at him?"

"Only if you greet your grandfather first," she answered, and that was all it took. Boromir was off, pelting across the courtyard till he neared his father and grandfather, whereupon he slowed to a decorous walk. Imrahil watched, grinning, as he gave his grandfather a hug, and the swiftest greeting he could get away with, then resumed his pell-mell pursuit of the pony. Finduilas sighed.

"That boy! He is such a handful!" Suddenly she spied Nimrien, who had been standing quietly by the whole time, and her face lit up again.

"Nimrien! You came as well? This is so wonderful!" And she flung herself past her brother, impetuous as her son, to embrace Nimrien fervently, the two of them immediately starting a happy conversation.

Imrahil glanced about the courtyard. Andrahar was stalking the perimeter, and glaring at the Haradric guards who were glaring back, Denethor and his father were already deep in discussion about the negotiations, Nimrien and Finduilas were excitedly catching up on old news, and Boromir was lost in pony-love. He looked questioningly at Faramir, who stared back at him soberly as ever, still chewing upon the finger.

"It looks as if it's just you and me, lad." Faramir considered this for a moment, then removed the finger from his mouth and offered it to his uncle. Imrahil mimed biting it, snapping his teeth together right beyond the end of it, and the little boy suddenly smiled and gurgled a laugh. The Prince took his hand, kissed the finger, and carried him into the house.


	4. Chapter Four

Author's Note--I am not a political animal and I don't like Denethor, so this chapter was one of the hardest things I've ever had to write. Many thanks to Elizabeth Wyeth, Sailing to Byzantium and Altariel for hand-holding and commentary throughout the difficult process.

Dinner that evening was a formal affair, but limited to the family, who met in a lavishly appointed dining room and clustered towards one end of a long table that could have held many more people. Adrahil and his company had been settled in their rooms beforehand, offered the opportunity to bathe, which was gratefully accepted, then dressed in their best to sit to meat. Many excellently prepared dishes were already upon the boards when they arrived, and the hunger caused by a long journey limited the conversation for a time, till appetites had been sated and the wine had been flowing for a while.

Young Faramir was not there, having been sent off to his bedroom with his nurse for a peaceful meal alone. Boromir, however, was present, much to Imrahil's surprise, clean and scrubbed-looking and quiet at his mother's side. At the head of the table, the Steward and his lady wore Gondor's black and silver, which Imrahil thought suited the Steward, but made his sister look entirely too pale and wan. He himself wore a tunic of bright blue and silver of a flamboyant richness nicely calculated to irk his brother-in-law, and a narrower gemmed circlet than that worn by his father. Adrahil looked stately in dark blue, his silvering hair echoed by the silver Swan Ship embroidered on his tunic.

Nimrien had chosen to wear a simple gown of deep rose that evening, a single string of pearls adorning her throat, and her usually unruly cloud of hair was smoothly coiled and braided and wrapped about with matching ribbon. She was the very picture of a demure, well-bred Numenorean maiden, and Imrahil had been startled to see Denethor look at her for a moment as she took her seat with approval and something that might even have been interest. That approval had faded when his glance strayed to Andrahar, who was seating himself upon Nimrien's other hand; swarthy, undeniably foreign-looking and severely magnificent in the blue and silver dress livery of a captain of the Swan Knights.

"I thought this was to be a _family_ dinner," Denethor had said in a quiet aside to Adrahil, as they had seated themselves.

"Andrahar _is_ family," came the Prince of Dol Amroth's quiet response, in a tone that brooked no argument. Denethor had looked as if he were going to say something else for a moment, then decided to let the matter rest. Andrahar, having overheard the whole thing (as perhaps had been intended), looked up the table to his liege lord, respect and love in his dark eyes.

Imrahil had bent his head over his plate to hide his smile, and cast a fond, sideways look at his father. Though Adrahil had initially been less than enthusiastic over the Haradric street-rat his son had rescued fourteen years ago, he had in time come to realize that Andrahar was the brother, in heart if not in blood, that Imrahil had never had, and to treat him as such. Andrahar in turn had come to regard Adrahil as a surrogate father, the man who had completed his education and given him opportunities for honorable work and responsibility that he otherwise would never have had. Andrahar would have laid down his life for Adrahil as cheerfully and fervently as he would have for his sworn brother--Imrahil wondered if his father realized this.

"It is good to see you again, Lady Nimrien," the Steward commented politely, a conversational opening gambit nicely timed for when the company had begun to push away from their plates. "Please give your aunt my regards when you return to Dol Amroth."

"Gladly will I do so, my lord," she murmured serenely. "Aunt Tirathiel asked me to greet you in turn, and said that she looks forward to defeating you at chess when she returns to Minas Tirith." Denethor uttered a short bark of laughter.

"Say rather she wishes the opportunity for vengeance for the defeats I have inflicted upon her!" Nimrien's eyes twinkled.

"It is peculiar, is it not, how great minds think alike, my lord? She attributed the very same motive to you!"

Laughter rippled around the table, and Prince Adrahil began to recount an amusing anecdote of their journey to Pelargir--not, thankfully, the entrance into the city. Imrahil, a bit stuporous from eating too much too quickly, listened for a few moments, long enough to determine that his father was not relating something that would require any contribution from him, then let his attention wander and his gaze drift in idle, sensual speculation over his chosen lady. The continual reminders he'd received of past excesses that day had put him in a state of need once more, and since he could not indulge himself in any other way, he allowed himself to fantasize for a bit. The pure line of Nimrien's throat held great possibilities, he thought, opportunities for kissing and nibbling, as did that incredible lower lip of hers....

His mind was running through several promising scenarios involving that lip when he noticed it suddenly tightening in disapproval. Silence had fallen over the table, and everyone was watching him, including Denethor, who looked as if he were waiting for the answer to a question, but had a satisfied gleam in his eye that said he didn't truly expect to get one. Imrahil cursed himself for a fool for woolgathering in the Steward's presence.

"I am sorry, my lord, I did not hear the question. What were you asking?" he was forced to admit, casting a quick side-long glance at his father. Adrahil was intent upon the contents of his goblet, and did not meet his eyes. There would be no help from that quarter. And Nimrien's stare was fulminating, almost as if she knew the tenor of his thoughts from the moment before.

"Your father had said that you had been nigh Umbar about six months ago. I merely wondered if the Haradrim were saying anything about the upcoming negotiations. But since you appear to be still at sea, please, don't let me disturb you." His tone was politeness itself, but Imrahil saw his sister wince, and hastened to amend his inattention.

"Oh, you were not disturbing me, my lord. I too was merely reflecting upon our journey here." Taking a moment to remove his mind from the realm of the prurient, he endeavored set it back firmly upon political matters. "You will understand, my lord, that I did not have converse with any high dignitaries while in Umbar," he replied at last, the crisp surety of his voice when he did so surprising even himself. "Save, of course, for the highest echelon of port officials, the harbor-master and such. The only matter they were concerned with that the treaty addresses was the import and export tariffs and taxes we levy on the goods they sell here in Pelargir. They feel them to be ruinously high, and were worried that they would be raised again, as they have been during each of the last two negotiations. I should also add that the same concerns have been raised by our merchants in Belfalas who trade with the Haradrim. Each party feels that the merchants are being taxed exorbitantly and unfairly in order to support the equipage of our respective militaries for a conflict that seems inevitable, and will destroy their livelihoods in the end."

Adrahil hid a smile by taking a drink of wine, and Nimrien looked both surprised and impressed. Denethor shrugged dismissively. "One cannot expect merchants to perceive the matters of greater importance," he declared. "They howl when they are being taxed, and declare that we are ruining them, but they howl paeans of ruin louder still if the navy and the army are not at their beck and call when they feel that they are being threatened. And that protection costs money."

"This was not the usual sort of complaint, or so I deem," the Heir stated quietly. "We lost several of our smaller trading houses this year."

"You are a military man, and not a man of business, so this is probably seems a more alarming an indication to you than it really is," Denethor responded, a hint of condescension in his tone. "The times are difficult just now. You can expect firms without sufficient acumen or assets to fail. I don't think that it is because of our economic policy. Import tariffs also help to protect our domestic industries from foreign incursion."

"Oh, does Gondor have a burgeoning silk industry? I hadn't noticed," Imrahil inquired brightly, then mentally cursed himself for the second time in mere minutes. He had never really liked his brother-in-law, but was usually careful to preserve at least the semblance of civility.

Andrahar bit back a laugh, covering it by taking a bite of roast, and Finduilas gave her brother a surprised look. Her husband regarded Imrahil coolly for a long moment.

"Yes, I imagine you would have noticed that, as much as you buy for your many lady-friends."

"Denethor!" Finduilas and Adrahil exclaimed almost simultaneously, and he raised a hand in an apologetic gesture.

"I am sorry, Imrahil, that was an inappropriate remark to make in such company," the Steward said smoothly, giving Nimrien and Finduilas each a contrite nod. Imrahil noted the distinction--that he apologized for the situation, not the remark itself. "Though I am surprised that a military man who relies upon such taxes and tariffs to make his work possible should oppose them so vehemently."

The young Prince sat up a bit straighter, and took a drink of wine before he answered with a gracious smile. "As heir to the principality, it is one of my duties to stimulate economic growth."

Denethor smiled as well, though it didn't lighten his eyes. "Most princes do not use such.... direct..... methods of stimulation."

At that, Finduilas turned to Denethor suddenly, before anyone else could speak.

"Husband, have a care!" she murmured. "Do remember that your son is present, and moderate your conversation accordingly! If such occurs again, we will both excuse ourselves, and I shall refer Boromir to _you_ if he has questions!" Despite her threats, Boromir looked to be in anything but a questioning mood--sleepy from eating a good dinner, he was leaning against his mother's arm with his eyes half-closed already.

Adrahil chuckled, as did Andrahar. Denethor bent his head towards his wife, lifted her hand and kissed it gently.

"You are right to reprimand me, my lady! I apologize, and will endeavor to be more circumspect." Finduilas shot her baby brother a chiding glance, and Imrahil realized that she was attempting a rescue. He gave her his most boyish, rakish grin in return, which the Steward noticed.

"I must confess," Denethor said genially, "I am fascinated by this conversation. I do believe that it is the first time, Imrahil, that I've heard you speak of anything other than your latest horse, suit of clothes, or exploit upon the high seas. Do continue with your economic exposition."

"I do not claim to be the expert on such matters that you or my father are, my lord," he said, ignoring the patent irony in the Steward's speech and speaking with what he hoped was becoming modesty. A sidelong glance at Adrahil garnered a nod from the ruling Prince to indicate that he should proceed. "But I have lived my whole life in a principality whose life-blood is trade, the more trade the better. Such tariffs and taxes, when set too high, stifle it. When you trade with another country, you exchange more than goods, you exchange ideas and even culture. It is harder to fight someone you know well like that. When you contemplate going to war with your neighbor, and increase the taxes to fund that war, thereby decreasing the trade and increasing the suspicion and animosity, you bring about the war you fear all the faster."

Denethor sat back, his elbows on the arms of his chair, and steepled his fingers. "So you are saying that in the face of the Haradrim escalation, you want to _lower_ the tariffs, and leave them with even more money to equip their armies with?"

"I think at the very least they should not be raised any higher. And yes, if they can be lowered in any way, I think they should. The increase in trade should hopefully make up for the shortfall. I will also point out that any reduction would be tied to a reduction in our payments to them, giving us more money for our military as well. And the reduction may also serve to stabilize the current situation, making things less tense than they are."

"Your....empathy with our Haradrim neighbors is admirable, given the trouble they have caused Dol Amroth over the years," said Denethor.

Instinctively, Imrahil raised a hand to his once-wounded shoulder, now completely mended save for the occasional twinge. "I know, my lord, as do we all, that eventually we will be at war with them, and they know this as well. But I was given to understand that we wished to put it off for as long as possible--else, why are we here? And they must feel the same way, or they would not have consented to meet with us!"

"Even so, I wonder at your open-mindedness. Its origins, in particular." And his gaze rested upon Andrahar for a moment. Andrahar grinned and met the Steward's glance very directly, taking a deliberate sip from his goblet as he did so. Imrahil knew that grin--it most often manifested upon the battlefield. Though his friend appeared not to be the least distressed at Denethor's implication, the Heir felt a thread of anger wend its warm way through his over-full stomach.

"My 'open-mindedness', as you term it, comes from meeting the Haradrim in battle and finding that there are men of honor amongst them, even as there are rogues and despots among our people," he declared. The Steward's eyebrow flicked upward.

"An interesting viewpoint," he all but purred. "Perhaps you would care to explain yourself further?" Imrahil sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment, reining his temper in hard before he spoke again. It was not the first time he had seen the Steward endeavor to anger an antagonist in order to rattle them--it was simply the first time he had ever troubled to do so to Imrahil.

"There are folk among the Haradrim, nobles even, who do not agree with their leaders' alliance with the Enemy," he explained. "I have met them, in battle and before and after. Men who are as good as their word, and with whom one may treat in confidence."

"It would appear then that you are trapped between the South.... and the West, Imrahil," the Steward commented with a meaningful look towards his now-sleeping son. "Ultimately, an untenable position." Finduilas bowed her head at that, her fingers stroking quietly through Boromir's tousled black hair. Nimrien's eyes widened, and Andrahar was no longer smiling. Imrahil caught a momentary flicker of fury, quickly quelled, in his black gaze.

"Denethor," Adrahil interjected firmly before his son or indeed, anyone else, could make answer, "I will not have the loyalty of my son, who nearly lost his life in battle against the Corsairs but a few months gone, questioned, either openly or by inference. You are spoiling my reunion with my dear daughter!" He smiled reassuringly at Finduilas before continuing sternly once more. "I do not understand your purpose in baiting Imrahil thusly, but if you say anything else of the kind again, I will remove myself and mine at once from these negotiations!"

Denethor immediately raised a placating hand. "Father, you misunderstand me! I did not mean to question Imrahil's loyalty. Rather, I simply hoped to warn him of the dangers of empathizing too much with one's enemy. I apologize for my lack of clarity!" If his smile was meant to be either contrite or charming, it missed the mark by a league or two by the Heir's reckoning. "Though I confess I am concerned about these supposed Gondorian 'despots and tyrants'. Perhaps my brother would be kind enough to make clear what he meant by that particular remark?"

Imrahil, who decided suddenly that he was tired of being civil after all, sat back in his chair, folded his arms, and said, "What I meant, _brother_, was that I, for one, am tired of spilling my blood to defend Dol Amroth's own from the Corsairs, only to have them plundered by Gondor's excise men when they come safe into port!" Nimrien sucked in a quiet but audible breath, throwing him a worried look across the table.

"Ah, we return to the tariff question once more!" The Steward's tone was amiability itself as he graciously ignored Imrahil's contentiousness. "Very well then, let us explore that topic further, though I have my concerns. Worthy though your endeavors to ward the coasts have been these last few years, Imrahil, I am not sure that that single-minded duty has left you with all the information you need to make an informed decision about such matters."

Imrahil felt his lips curl into the smile he usually reserved for boarding a pirate vessel. "My lord Steward, I have been upon land these last few months, and was charged with collecting all the yearly taxes for our demesne by my lord father this last winter. I have personally spoken with subjects in every city, town and village in our principality, and was also charged with reconciling the accounts with his seneschal at year's end, and comparing them to previous years. I submit that that makes me informed enough."

Denethor inclined his head in acquiescence. "Very well then. Why do you feel that the import and export taxes are too high?"

"In speaking with our people, I have heard naught but complaint about the tariffs from those whose livelihood is trade. I have already spoken of the failures of several smaller merchant houses, but the treaty of five years ago has created such hardship amongst our merchant community, affecting even the strongest members, that after determining the validity of those complaints, my father was actually compelled to lower taxes for our merchants to give them breathing space in the face of Gondor's exorbitant demands." Adrahil stiffened in his chair, and looked as if he were going to say something, then stopped himself.

"'Gondor's exorbitant demands'?" Denethor inquired silkily.

"Yes, my lord. I will apprise you of the situation, since you are not often among us, and perhaps do not have access to all the information you need." The Steward frowned, Finduilas' fingers stilled for a moment, and Adrahil closed his eyes and winced as if in pain, though he did not silence his son.

"The Swan Knights, our men-at-arms, and Dol Amroth's navy are all paid for out of the principality's purse. With these assets we patrol not only our own lands, but the Langstrand and other portions of Western Gondor out of courtesy. Gondor contributes not one penny for their maintenance. Many would think that Gondor should thank Dol Amroth for the courtesy and ask nothing further." The Steward frowned at that. "Instead, Gondor looks at our wealth, generated by our merchants, and desiring some of that for its own purposes, sets the tariffs high so that it may generate enough income for its own uses. Our people are being taxed twice over--once for our legitimate needs, and a second time for yours. And ours are beginning to suffer. If we cannot adequately maintain our roads, docks and warehouses, then the wealthy merchant base upon which Gondor depends so heavily will wither and fade. It is already doing so."

"I think perhaps you overstate the situation."

"And I think, my lord Steward, that perhaps I do not. Our people are starting to ask questions: where, they ask, are Lebennin, Lossarnach, Morthrond, Pinnath Gelin and all the rest when Minas Tirith needs defending? What am I to tell them?"

The Steward looked over at young Boromir, his face flushed in sleep. "You tell them," he said quietly, "that we are all in this together. You face the Corsairs, and we face the frontiers of Mordor, and we will all of us be shedding blood before this is through--including this young Prince of Dol Amroth."

_I had forgotten that little Boromir is indeed my heir till I get some of my own_, Imrahil reflected, though he was unmoved by the appeal to his nurturing instincts. A rather transparent strategy for Denethor to try, though Imrahil knew the Steward had never given him credit for any particular depth of thought.

"That is all well and good, and full of fine sentiment, my lord," he said, "but it does not change the fact that the backs of Belfalas' merchants cannot support the weight of an army for all of Gondor! No matter how fine the cow, she can give no milk without sufficient fodder! We have paid our share and far more than our share, and now you must give us some relief."

It was nothing but the truth, a truth that had been courteously ignored until recent events had made it impossible to do so. Imrahil knew that his father had been debating whether or not to broach the subject with his son-in-law during the negotiations--it was one of the things they had discussed upon the journey. Adrahil's mouth was tight, but his expression still revealed nothing, neither approval nor disappointment that the matter had been taken out of his hands. Nimrien was looking thoughtful, as if pondering the ramifications of all that had been said, and Andrahar, apparently having gotten over his anger, had covered his mouth with a napkin in an effort to disguise the fact that he found this whole overly dramatic business rather amusing. He looked as if he were about to commence gnawing upon it in a last-ditch effort to contain himself. Denethor, who made no answer, was studying Imrahil as if he had never met him before.

Ignoring him, Imrahil looked over at Finduilas, and found her eyes shadowed and her face upset, though whether upon account of his actions or her husband's he was not certain. Smiling at her, he said, "As I have supped more than adequately, and monopolized the conversation sufficiently for one night, I give you all good evening, and will try to make amends for any offenses by removing this 'young prince of Dol Amroth' to his bed." Rising, he made his way around to the back of his sister's chair and leaned over it to kiss her on the cheek. She gave him a somewhat tremulous smile, aided him as he managed to worm an arm beneath his nephew and extricate him from his chair, then made as if to rise with him.

"I should tuck him in." Imrahil shook his head forbiddingly at her.

"No sister, stay and enjoy the remainder of the meal! I am sure that you all can find more pleasant things to talk about, and you've not seen Nimrien in a long time. This will be good practice for me." Burdened with an armload of sleeping boy, he nodded to the Steward, his father, the ladies, and then departed. After a moment, Andrahar got up and silently followed him.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

As it turned out, it was not as good practice as Imrahil had anticipated, for the nurse took the boy into her charge as soon as he was laid upon his bed and shooed the two of them away as extraneous nuisances. Andrahar followed him back to his room and burst out into laughter the moment they closed the door behind them.

"That I should live to see the day you would best the Steward of Gondor in an argument!" he chortled. The Prince flopped back onto his bed, frowning, his arms behind his head.

"I really don't think that I did."

"You held your ground and made a strategic withdrawal before he could collect himself and come at you again. Which is better than most I've seen who've come up against him."

"What I don't understand is why he attacked me that way! He has never done so before."

Andra turned a chair about and sat down upon it, folding his arms around the back and laying his chin upon them.. "You have never shown an interest in political matters before. He's afraid of you."

Imrahil gave him a disbelieving look. "_Afraid_? Of me? I hardly think so."

"No, he really is," the captain of the Swan Knights asserted. "You are the one person who could garner enough influence to truly oppose him in Gondor. Western Gondor looks to Dol Amroth as much as to Minas Tirith, and appreciates your efforts to defend it. He is new to the Stewardship, and still uncertain about his control, and he is a man who likes to be in control. Your father is invested in trying to make him part of the family for Finduilas' sake. You are not. One day, your father will be gone, and he will have to deal with you. And whether you realize it or not, Imri, you are very charismatic. Your men did not follow you onto that Corsair ship against such long odds because you ordered them to. They did it because they love you."

"And a goodly number of them died because of it," the Prince replied bitterly.

"You have already learned your lesson from that, so we will speak no more of it. You achieved a victory in any event, and Denethor mistrusts men who can make such miracles. They put him in mind of Thorongil, who so seduced his father's heart."

"My father is going to be wroth with me."

Andrahar shrugged. "I did not see the Prince calling you down. I suspect that this is something he was going to take up with the Steward himself, in a more private and polite manner."

Imrahil sat up of a sudden, running his fingers distractedly through his hair. "Yes, we had discussed the possibility, though he had not made a final decision. But Fin must be vexed with me as well." Andrahar dismissed that as unimportant.

"Ah well, what does that matter? You could always get around her! Just look mournful, bat your eyes at her and tell her you didn't mean to offend her husband, sour fellow that he is."

The Prince smiled a little at that, then sobered and sighed. "Andra, whatever am I doing here? Besides heading Father's guard detachment? I'm a captain, not a diplomat--I proved that this evening.."

"Learning to be a diplomat," his friend answered promptly. "When you become the ruling Prince, you will have to be one at least part of the time whether you like it or not."

The Heir considered this for a moment. "Dol Amroth," he concluded glumly, "is in deep trouble."

Andrahar got up from his chair, gave him a jaunty smile and headed for the door. "Let me see if I can find the Bane of Dol Amroth some beer."


	5. Chapter Five

The next morning Imrahil arose early despite the beer, wanting to speak with Andrahar about the disposition of his knights before he was forced to spend the day mewed inside a council chamber. But the captain was not in his room. Figuring that his dutiful friend must already be hard at work, the Heir to Dol Amroth stepped outside. There in the courtyard he found Andrahar, trotting Boromir's new pony around in circles on a long line, while Boromir perched precariously upon its back, trying to stay on without benefit of stirrups. Remembering his own long-line sessions at a similarly early age, Imrahil grinned and sauntered over.

Seeing him, Boromir turned his upper body to wave a greeting, overbalanced, and promptly fell on his rump onto the hard paving stones. Andrahar tssked, and reeled the pony in.

"You must learn to attend to the matter at hand, young Boromir. Such flightiness can be fatal in matters of arms." Boromir's eyes were watering from the pain of the impact, but he merely blinked a couple of times, and got up, rubbing his tender rear.

"Good morning, Uncle Imrahil."

"Good morning, Boromir. I am sorry to have made you fall."

"You didn't make me, Uncle, I forgot what I was doing." Andrahar cocked an eyebrow in covert approval at the boy, then turned his glance upon Imrahil.

"Aren't you supposed to be inside being diplomatic?"

"Not for an hour yet, praise the Valar. Tell me again why I am here?"

"Because your lord father requested it, and you are doing as he wishes for six months to curry favor with the Lady Nimrien." Imrahil frowned and gave Andrahar a warning look, jerking his head at his nephew, but Boromir seemed disinterested in the conversation, intent instead upon patting his pony's neck.

"Unless, of course, there's some other reason you've not seen fit to inform me of," Andrahar concluded blithely, ignoring the Prince's irritated glare. After a moment, an unwilling snort of laughter issued from Imrahil's lips.

"I actually came out to see how you had stationed the men."

"Standard sentry pattern, three shifts a day, a separate group of the senior knights for guard duty upon the council chamber. I've already conferred with the Lord Steward's commander to insure that there's overlapping coverage. Why--is there a problem?"

"No, not at all. Just checking."

"Just putting off the inevitable, don't you mean?"

"Yes, if you must know!" Imrahil reached down, scooped his nephew up and deposited him in the saddle once more. "I think I'll watch you for a while." Andrahar clicked to the pony, and began moving him out to the end of the line once more.

"I would rather you did not, my lord--young Boromir here seems a bit prone to distraction." Feigning offense, the Prince turned and stalked off towards the barn. 

"Well! I know when I'm not wanted! I shall look in upon my horse instead--he is not so surly first thing in the morning!" A boyish giggle arose behind him. 

In the barn, Imrahil inspected the stables and spoke with the stablemen, finding conditions there to his satisfaction. Then he took a brush and gave his iron-grey stallion a once-over, keeping an ear cocked towards the stream of calm, concise instructions outside. When Andrahar had to reprimand Boromir three times within five minutes for hauling upon the reins to keep himself in the saddle, the Prince winced, for he knew his friend well, and sure enough, the sound of hooves ceased soon after. Imrahil snuck to the door of the barn and peered out.

Andrahar had reeled the pony in once more, and stood over the Steward's son with the long line looped in coils over his arm.

"Open your mouth, Boromir," he commanded sternly, and eyes wide, the boy complied, whereupon the Swan Knight inserted a finger into each corner of the orifice. "Now close it." Boromir wrinkled his nose and did as he was told, whereupon Andrahar promptly gave the corners a sharp tug. The boy yelped as he withdrew his fingers.

"That hurt!"

"That is what you do to this poor pony every time you grab your reins." Despite his irritation, Andrahar's voice was absolutely calm. "They were tied up short upon his neck for a reason, Boromir. If you do not wish to follow my instructions, you may wait till you get to Minas Tirith to learn to ride." Boromir, who was, Imrahil had noticed, an assertive boy with a good opinion of himself, folded his arms and glared up at Andrahar.

"You have to teach me to ride if I tell you to--I am the Steward's Heir! And you are supposed to call me Master Boromir!" Imrahil winced again, as Andrahar promptly lifted the child off of the pony and set him down upon the stones with a force that rattled the boy's teeth.

"Very well, Minas Tirith it is. You can find some boot-licker there more to your liking to teach you. Do not come about the stable again while you are here, boy--your father will be told you are underfoot. And just so you know--I do not answer to your father, I answer to Prince Adrahil. And I call no one 'Master' until they have mastered something other than stealing cakes for breakfast and sneaking away from their nursemaid." Andrahar began leading the pony back towards the barn as Boromir stared after him, stunned. 

He gave Imrahil a wink as he entered the barn, and the Prince, grinning, ducked back out of sight into his stallion's stall. Andrahar took the pony into its stall, and paused with his hand upon the bridle, waiting.

A small figure soon stood silhouetted in the doorway. "Master Andrahar?" Boromir asked tentatively. Andrahar, removing the bridle and putting a halter on the pony, grunted. "I am sorry. I apologize for being impret...impnent....rude. If I listen really hard and do what you say, will you please teach me to ride?" Andrahar grunted again and gave the boy a look that said he doubted Boromir's ability to do anything of the kind. Boromir hastened to reassure him. "I learn things really quickly--ask my tutors."

"There is no time for any more riding today," Andrahar informed him after another long, appraising look. "I have inspections and other matters of security to see to." Boromir scowled, disappointed, and started to say something, but then thought better of it and nodded obediently. "If you come at the same time tomorrow morning, you may ride again. For now, you may learn how to brush the pony, and take his harness off."

Boromir moved into the stall, and began to follow Andrahar's instructions, while Imrahil listened from his vantage point. After a bit, the boy gathered his courage, and made an inquiry of his instructor.

"The Swan Knights all say you're the best fighter in their company. Does that mean that you're the best fighter in Gondor?"

"One of them. It is hard to say who is the best now. Thorongil was the best I'd ever seen with a blade when he was here."

"Father doesn't like people to talk about him. Is Father a good fighter?"

"Yes, he's a good fighter. But he's also a good leader of men, and that is more important for a man in his position. The two do not always go hand in hand."

"I am going to be both when I grow up."

"Not unless you learn to follow your teachers' instructions better than you did today." There was a long silence, punctuated only by the scratching sound of the brush moving over the pony's hide. Eventually, the boy spoke again.

"My mother says you are very, very good with a sword, and you know how to fight with a knife as well. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"Can you teach me how to fight with a knife? Father says I'm not old enough for a sword yet, but I figure I am just big enough start learning with a knife."

"Actually, it is too late--you are too old to learn knife-fighting."

"Too OLD? Really?" The novelty of being considered too old for anything apparently overrode the disappointment of being refused.

"Indeed. Where I came from, the moment a boy of the warrior caste let go his mother's teat for the last time, they put a knife in it. A small knife, to be sure." From the undercurrent of humor in Andrahar's voice, Imrahil could tell that he was pulling the boy's leg. Boromir, however, did not notice, fixating instead upon something else entirely.

"That's a bad word."

"What is?"

"Teat."

"Who told you that?"

"Nana."

"And who might Nana be? Your nursemaid?"

"Not mine anymore!" the young voice was indignant. "She is Faramir's nursemaid now."

Andrahar pondered this for a moment. "How peculiar. That means she has two great big bad words jutting out in front of her. I will never understand you Gondorrim." Boromir laughed delightedly at such wickedness, and Andrahar showed him how to check the pony's chest to see if it was still hot. The pony being found to be quite cool, the lesson was declared over with, and Boromir dismissed. But Imrahil did not hear him leave, and after a moment a hesitant plea was made.

"Master Andrahar? May I come with you when you do your inspections? I need to start learning how to do such things if I am to command men once day." There was long, anxious pause, then Andrahar said firmly, "You would have to be silent unless I gave you leave to speak, and you would have to keep out of the way."

"I can do that!"

"We shall see. Come along." Having suddenly acquired a small shadow, the captain left the barn, and after he had gone, Imrahil came forth, chuckling to himself. It looked as if he were not the only one in for a difficult day. Though Andrahar got along very well with children as a rule, despite his forbidding manner. It was regrettable in a way, since there was little likelihood that the Swan Knight would ever have any........Sobered once more by that thought, Imrahil looked at the retreating backs of his nephew and his closest friend, and made a solemn vow to himself.

__

My sons, should I ever have any, will be your sons as well, Andra.

************

Having returned to his rooms to do a quick wash-up and comb and change his admittedly horsey-smelling tunic, Imrahil had to hurry to arrive outside the negotiation chamber in a timely manner. But he accomplished it, endeavoring to look sober, responsible and humorless, so as to impress the Steward. Denethor gave him a dyspeptic look, and definitely seemed unimpressed, but Adrahil smiled.

"If you would take notes for me, Imrahil, it would be very helpful. You write more swiftly than I do these days, and with a neater hand as well." Imrahil wondered wryly who was going to do the honors for Denethor, for it seemed as if the Steward had emptied Minas Tirith of every man in his civil service, so many clerks and assistant under-secretaries stood there, with quills and files and portfolios in hand. A sudden vision of battles of clerkly precedence fought with pen-knives, parchment rolls and blotting sand crossed his mind, and he had to cough to suppress a laugh. His father cocked an eyebrow at him, and he mouthed _"Later,"_ to him silently. 

The Haradrim too had a large group milling before the doors, though it seemed slightly more militaristic in composition. By agreement, no one in the negotiating parties was armed, though armed guards of both nationalities stood close by. But Imrahil, dressed in Swan Knight livery, was the only obvious military man in Gondor's contingent. There were a couple of Haradrim military uniforms, and one naval officer, a Captain Faris, a man whom Imrahil actually recognized, among the Haradric negotiators. Umbarian diplomats and secretaries were present as well, and there were three men in enveloping robes and head-cloths the like of which the Heir had seen only once before, upon a previous trip to Umbar. Haradrim from a deep desert tribe, he guessed, their faces burnt so black by the sun that the dark blue of tattoos upon their cheeks and foreheads could barely be discerned. One of them was an old man, and from the deference shown him by the two younger ones, a figure of some importance.

"Greetings to our esteemed guests, the Haradric delegation," the Steward of Gondor declared solemnly. "We appreciate the effort you have made to come here, and your willingness to treat with us. Hopefully, what is wrought here will benefit both of our nations."

"We thank our royal cousin for receiving us so warmly and hospitably," the ranking Umbarian diplomat said. _There's one blow struck already,_ Imrahil thought to himself, watching the way his brother-in-law's face went still all of a sudden. _To call Denethor 'royal' is to imply that he has ambitions beyond his station. _"And we too hope that these negotiations will bear the fruit of peace." He gestured towards the open doors of the conference chamber, and he and the Haradric leader stepped inside at the same moment, followed by their retinues.

Once within, there were a few moments of chaos, as the respective nations' members shuffled themselves into order of precedence along the long table. When they were finished, Denethor of course sat at one end, with Adrahil upon his right hand, and Imrahil upon his father's right. At his left sat the head of his Council, Forlyn of Lossarnach, and young Lord Hurin, who had become Warden of the Keys at almost the same time that Denethor had succeeded his father. The remainder of Gondor's seats were taken up by senior clerks and advisors.

To Imrahil's surprise, it was the oldest of the desert Haradrim who took the seat of honor upon the Haradrim side, his two associates upon his right hand, and Lord Asadel, the ranking Umbarian lord upon his left, with one of the Haradrim military officers at his side. There were more members to either party than there was room at the table, and several of Denethor's clerks, as well as some Haradrim clerks, the other Haradrim military man and the Haradrim naval captain were reduced to standing along the walls. There was another brief pause while the standing members were tallied, and chairs brought for them from another chamber. Both sides' excess clerks, unfazed, laid inkwells, scrapers and quills upon windowsills, and prepared to scratch away upon tablets in their laps that provided a firm surface for their writing.

Denethor looked about, saw everyone settled, and cleared his throat. "Perhaps now we may begin?" he inquired of Lord Asadel with a gracious inclination of his head. The Umbarian looked towards the elderly Haradrim at the head of the table. He did not speak, but his associate seated upon his immediate right hand did.

"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."

"I speak for Gondor in all things, as the Stewards have ever done," Denethor said smoothly. "Perhaps we should begin by examining the trade provisions upon the first page." He looked down at his copy of the treaty, only to look up again when utter silence fell over the conference room. The right-hand Haradrim spoke once more.

"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."

Thus began one of the most frustrating and yet boring mornings Imrahil had ever experienced, for the Haradrim delegates would say nothing, deferring always to the elder at the head of the table and his mouthpiece, who also said nothing but the same statement, over and over again.

Despite his dislike of Denethor, Imrahil had to admire his brother-in-law's comportment. The new Steward of Gondor never lost his temper nor raised his voice, though he must have been extremely irritated. He tried everything he could, speaking to Lord Asadel and the other delegates, to open the negotiations in earnest, but to no avail.

Imrahil, who knew better than to say anything at all, sat with his head bowed over his papers, idly doodling little horses and ships around the edges until his father gave him a pointed look, whereupon he folded his hands and simply waited out the interminable morning until the bells should ring the noon hour and they could all recess. As he waited, he pondered the situation they found themselves in. Did the Haradrim wish to drive them into war? What was the meaning of this behavior? He had the distinct feeling that he was missing something, that there was a piece of this puzzle not immediately apparent.

It was with great relief that he heard the tolling of the noon bell, and he was one of the first out of the chamber when the doors opened. Both parties were to retire to eat lunch in their own quarters and reconvene at the second hour after noon, and he was already desperately wishing that he could find a reason to excuse himself from the afternoon session. _I am not apt to a diplomatic career, that much is certain, _he thought to himself disparagingly, _for I have no patience._ He made his way out onto the arched colonnade, looking down over the garden and admiring the way the flowers were already blooming in Pelargir's early spring. Nimrien, Finduilas and little Faramir were below, the ladies seated in the shade doing needlework and watching while the little boy reached happily into the fountain that was central to the garden, trying to catch the golden fish that swam in the green water. Fish that were apparently as elusive and uncooperative as the Haradrim delegation…..

"Prince Imrahil," a low voice greeted him, and he turned to see his former acquaintance Captain Faris walking up.

"Captain Faris! 'Tis good to see you, sir! How do you fare?" The Haradrim captain's face was somber, though he did smile at Imrahil's greeting.

"Well enough. Better, certainly, than you found me at our first meeting." Imrahil had put his _Olwen_ into a port in Khand at almost the same time as had Captain Faris docked his ship, both men putting back out to sea swiftly when they discovered there was a virulent fever in the port. But they were too late, and soon many men on both crews were seriously ill.

Coincidentally, both ships had made for an island that they knew lay a few days out to sea, an island with a fresh-water spring, for they had not had time to re-provision. There, a truce of necessity was declared, as the able-bodied of both crews combined forces to nurse their ill crewmates and burn or bury their dead, as their respective beliefs demanded. That truce had held until the fever had run its course and both ships continued on their way. It had in fact been Faris Imrahil was thinking of when he had spoken of Haradrim who could be trusted the night before.

"Captain, what is the meaning of this?" he asked quietly, aware of a huge Haradric guardsman standing not too far away. "Is it your peoples' will that we go to war at last? And if such is the case, why then do they not simply say so?" Faris, following his glance, looked over his shoulder for a moment at the guardsman, then sighed, seeming to come to a difficult decision.

"All I can tell you, Imrahil, is that the First Lord of Umbar wishes for peace, even if some others do not," he murmured urgently. "There are conditions that must be met, customs that must be deferred to, but if you do, we will treat with you in good faith." The guardsman pushed away from the wall and started swiftly towards them. "Look for your answers in the deep desert." He then turned, resignation and fear in his eyes, to meet the guardsman, who seized him none too gently by the arm, and hustled him away towards a group of more guardsmen, who enveloped him and dragged him back into the building. Shocked, the Prince stared after him, only to jump when Andrahar's voice sounded at his shoulder.

"Interesting…this whole business gets stranger by the moment. Your father sends to say that lunch is ready." Imrahil turned to him.

"What happened to your shadow?"

"The boy? He's with his tutor now."

"Did you hear what Captain Faris had to say?"

"Yes."

"What do you suppose it means?"

"I am not certain, though he seems to be indicating that there is some sort of discord among the Haradrim." Imrahil's brow furrowed.

"He said that the answers were in the deep desert. This Lord Khuzayam seems to be of one of those tribes."

"Duqaq or perhaps even Fahrikhi, if I make my guess," Andrahar commented thoughtfully. "'Tis odd. The desert folk are not of sufficient power to take such precedence in the Councils ordinarily. I wonder why they put him forward as their negotiator?" The Heir gave his foster brother a hopeful look.

"Do you know what these customs might be that Faris spoke of?" Andrahar's lip curled in a decidedly superior sneer.

"_Me_? I was raised in Bashir and Umbar. What do I know of how the sand-rats live?" At Imrahil's surprised look, he sighed.

"Imri, you know very well that the Haradrim are a confederacy of tribes, and they do not all live in the same way, nor do they have common customs. How could they? Customs are dictated by the land in which a people live. Those which serve the desert folk well would not be useful to the coastal lords on their richer lands, nor the folk to the south in their fetid jungles. I was never in the desert, and indeed, no-one of my caste cared much about how the desert tribes lived their lives--so long as their sons answered the call to war when it was issued. That is what they have always been--the fodder for the Haradrim war machine. They come forth hoping to survive and bring money and prosperity back to their tribes. And oftentimes they do, buying with their blood the coast-lords' gold. The fiercest of fighters, though there are fewer and fewer of them." The Prince frowned thoughtfully.

"I should speak to Lord Denethor of this. Perhaps he has an answer to this problem. He does know a great many things." Andrahar nodded.

"Indeed, you should. You've acquired an important piece of information, more than anyone else has so far, and it looks as if that captain might be paying dearly for having imparted it. You need to speak to the Steward now." So they went forth in search of lunch and Imrahil's brother-in-law.

************

Imrahil had hardly expected praise from the Steward, given that he was the source of the information, but the reaction he did get was even cooler than what he thought it would be.

"It is curious, is it not, that the Haradrim should include a captain in their party known to be friendly to Imrahil?" Denethor remarked dryly, after the young Prince had recounted the meeting with Faris. Adrahil cocked an eyebrow as he cut his meat.

"What do you mean by that?"

"I have to wonder if they are not using your son as a conduit to spread disinformation." He took up and chewed a bite of his own meat, swallowed, then swiftly added, "That is not to say that I think that Imrahil is in any way in collusion with the Haradrim." The Steward had apparently learned his lesson about those sorts of accusations the night before. "But they know of his lack of diplomatic experience, and they may be taking advantage of that."

"My decision to include Imrahil in my party was a last-minute one. They would have had to have good intelligence indeed to make a plan that depended upon his presence here," Adrahil said quietly.

"And Faris was frightened, I could see it in his eyes," the Heir said. "I do truly think he took a risk to tell me what he did, my lord Steward. And that the information is genuine."

"Be that as it may, they are deluding themselves if they think I will dance meekly to their tune, or play this silly game of customs they seek to thrust upon us," Denethor said with icy disdain. "If they do not wish to properly negotiate a peace, then we will withdraw and prepare for war. I will give them this afternoon and all of tomorrow to come to their senses. If they do not, then the negotiations are over."

An idea occurred to Imrahil then. "My lord Steward, might I be excused from the afternoon session? Lady Nimrien had the foresight to bring with her many volumes about the Haradrim from our library. Perhaps there will be something of use to us within their pages."

Denethor stared at him for a moment, then inclined his head gracefully. "Of course, Imrahil. By all means, pursue some… research for us." The intimation that Imrahil might be taking the opportunity to pursue Nimrien instead was lost upon no one at the table, and he could feel Andrahar stiffen momentarily at his side. With an effort, he smiled pleasantly at his brother-in-law.

"I thank you, my lord, for the dispensation." Adrahil gave him an approving look, and feeling quite the diplomat, the young Prince bent his head over his lunch once more.


	6. Chapter Six

After lunch, Imrahil sought out Nimrien, and found her still keeping company with his sister. They had retreated into the house to eat their own meal, and both of the boys were with them, Faramir seated upon his mother's lap being fed slices of fruit, while Boromir wolfed down his lunch on his own.

"Imri! How are the negotiations going?" Finduilas asked as he embraced her.

"They are not 'going' at all. They are totally stalled," he replied, and told the two women what had transpired that morning in the negotiation chamber.

"This is very odd. What is it that they hope to accomplish?" his sister mused when he had finished. "I have never heard of such a thing happening before."

He shrugged. "The rules have apparently changed of a sudden. I need Nimrien's books and her knowledge of them. Perhaps there is something about this Speaker business within their pages."

"What does Andra say about this?" Finduilas asked, wiping Faramir's face with a napkin.

"That he knows nothing of how the sand-rats live," Imrahil replied, and was pleased to hear his sister laugh.

"That does sound like Andra! The dear man! I must find some time to spend with him before we return to Minas Tirith." Finduilas had always been oblivious to Andrahar's more prickly qualities, and liked him very well. The Heir knew that she was saddened by her husband's dislike of him.

"I apologize for depriving you of Nimrien's companionship, sister, but I really do need her help. I hope that you do not mind." Finduilas waved the hand with the napkin in it.

"Not at all, Imri. Once I get these two settled for their naps, I may come and help you as well, if you would like." Pleased, Imrahil flashed her his boyish grin.

"The more the merrier, Fin. We'll be in Father's suite--that is where the books were taken."

"Mother! I am too old to need a nap!" Boromir protested. "I wanted to find Captain Andrahar and see if he would give me a lesson in knife-fighting!"

"Nap or no, nephew, Andrahar is going to be otherwise occupied this afternoon," the Prince informed his young kinsman. "He speaks most of the Haradric dialects, and we need him to help us with the books."

"He is a soldier, and will not enjoy that at all," Boromir declared. "I know that he would rather give me a lesson in arms than look through all those musty old books."

"No doubt, but it is a sad fact of life, Boromir, that we often have to do things we would rather not," Imrahil informed him gravely, while thinking to himself that that had certainly been a lesson he himself had only recently learned! "Perhaps tomorrow Andrahar can give you a sword lesson or another riding lesson. But we need to do this research, or your father will withdraw from the peace negotiations the day after tomorrow. And then we would have war."

This did not have the dismaying effect upon Boromir that it should have done.

"Does that mean we'll have a _battle_ then, Uncle Imri?" he asked eagerly. "Will you and Father and Captain Andrahar have to fight?"

"No. Or at least not immediately, Boromir," Imrahil replied, hoping that his answer was a truthful one. Should the negotiations founder, he doubted that the Haradrim would try to cause any trouble within the bounds of Pelargrir, but he deemed it not impossible. The Steward of Gondor and his entire family, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his heir--all were present under one roof. The Haradrim might feel it well worth the sacrifice of their negotiating party to deprive Gondor of its leadership in one blow. He smiled at his nephew. "I hope that you are not too disappointed. Besides, sooner or later, you will get your fill of war. Trust me on this."

"So Father says as well," Boromir grumbled, sulky at the prospect of being denied Captain Andrahar's tutelage and company. The Heir to Dol Amroth turned to Nimrien, only to find her setting her napkin down and getting up.

"I did not mean to interrupt your lunch, lady. This can wait until you are finished."

"Oh, I am quite done, Imri. And it is no problem, truly. This is exactly the reason I brought those books along. I am certain that the coachmen would appreciate knowing that all their effort in packing and unpacking them was of some use! Please join us later if you can, Finduilas."

Finduilas smiled up at them. "I will if Denethor does not need me for anything."

"He was headed back to the negotiation chamber last I looked, sister," Imrahil told her. "Where he is probably going to endure a very frustrating afternoon, poor fellow!"

Finduilas looked down at the top of Faramir's head. Her youngest had lapsed most cooperatively into slumber all on his own. "Well, then, I will do what I can to help you while I can, but he will probably want my company this evening." Looking back up, she smiled fondly at them. "The two of you had best get to work. If I know Nimrien, she brought a _lot _of books!" Nimrien laughingly acknowledged the truth of that, and she and Imrahil set off for Prince Adrahil's chambers.

"So, did the two of you speak of me at all while you were together?" The young Prince inquired with a grin as they walked.

Nimrien's delicate brows arched, and she smiled her prim smile. "Of course we did, Imrahil. But do you really want to know what two women who know you as well as the two of us do had to say?"

Disconcerted, Imrahil considered this for a moment. "I suppose not," he admitted at last. Nimrien laughed out loud.

"Your face--it looks just like Boromir's did when you told him he couldn't have his knife lesson!" Imrahil kept silent after that.

************ 

They found the books still in their trunks, but Nimrien took command of the situation immediately, clearing a large table in the Prince's study for their work.

"We will place the books that Andra and I need to look through upon this side of the table," she said, gesturing to one side, "and the books that you will be looking through over here," with a wave to the other side. "Finduilas can help you, if she is able to come."

"So--how do you decide which books I look at, and which you and Andrahar will examine?" Imrahil inquired curiously.

Hands upon hips, Nimrien surveyed the scene, and replied a little absent-mindedly. 

"Your spoken Haradric is much better than mine," she admitted. "You've even got a proper accent, probably from long association with Andra. But I will wager I read archaic Haradric dialects much better than you do, so Andrahar and I will take the more obscure works, while you take the general ones in Westron and modern Haradric."

"Very well, then, which ones shall I start with?" the Heir asked, bowing to her superior knowledge in the matter.

"We will have to sort them first. There are some that have no bearing upon this situation whatsoever, so we'll put them back in the trunks."

"We don't have to go through all of them, then?" A feeling of relief washed over Imrahil.

"Of course not. Only about two thirds of them." The feeling vanished as swiftly as it had come. Following Nimrien's instructions, the Prince started emptying the trunks of books, putting them upon one or the other side of the large table, or on another, smaller side table to be returned to the trunks later. The task was half completed when Andrahar stuck his head into the study.

"Did you send for me, my lord prince?" he asked, but Nimrien answered before Imrahil could.

"Yes, we did, Andrahar. We need you to help us look through these books. Go get out of that armor and wash up and return here as swiftly as you can, please." Andrahar's eyebrows flew up at that, and he gave Imrahil a discrete look of inquiry. The Prince nodded.

"We really need your help with this, Andra. Put Peloren in charge of things, and hurry back."

"As my lord and lady wish," he said, the tiniest bit of irritation showing. He bowed and left, and Nimrien looked after him with a small smile.

"He does not seem happy about this assignment," she noted. Imrahil set an armful of books upon his side of the table, then shrugged.

"He would not. You know Andra--he feels that he is the only person who can keep any of us safe, and it makes him uneasy when he has to leave the security arrangements to others, even if they are fellow Swan Knights. He is worried for Father, and I also think that he is uneasy because of the Haradrim. I have not _seen_ any incidents, but it is possible that they are harassing him, considering him to be a traitor."

"I had not considered that," Nimrien said sympathetically. "The poor fellow. It must truly be difficult for him at times like this."

"Yes, and no," the Heir replied, fetching some more books. "He cannot help but feel some kinship with the Haradrim. It angers him if someone attempts to slight or denigrate the culture that produced him, for such is a slight upon him as well. But his blood-kin would slay him in the most horrible fashion they could contrive if he tried to return home, and he knows that. We are his family now, and his loyalty is given entirely to us, never doubt it--despite what the Steward thinks." He gave his chosen lady a rakish grin. "Though he does lose patience with our weird Gondorrim ways from time to time."

Nimrien chuckled. "Are you sure that it is our weird ways, or just the way that _you _carry on?"

"A bit of both, I suspect," Imrahil replied easily. The archivist sobered, and gave him a thoughtful look.

"Thank you, Imri, for asking me to help with this."

"Why would I not?" His obvious surprise won him another thoughtful look.

"Many men would not. They would say that a woman should tend to her sewing."

"Many men do not know women who speak five languages, and have almost the entirety of Dol Amroth's library committed to memory. If they did, they would not be so foolish."

Nimrien's cheeks grew pink, and she went over to sort through another pile of volumes.

"If I truly had the library committed to memory, we should not have to be doing this! But it is very good to feel as if I am contributing something to these proceedings. I appreciate that."

Startled, Imrahil realized suddenly that for once he'd done something right! He bent over the books without further commentary. Best to quit while one was ahead…

************

The books had been completely sorted by the time that Andrahar returned, clad in fresh livery and having left his armor in his chambers. The captain's blade, however, was at his side as usual. He seated himself in the chair Nimrien indicated, and listened attentively while Imrahil explained about the Speaker and Nimrien described the system they were using to find the information.

"You truly know nothing about this custom, Andrahar?" she asked. An odd expression came over her face as she spoke and as Imrahil watched, perplexed, she sniffed once delicately.

"No lady, I do not," he replied. "I fear that all I will be good for is to help you search for it the hard way." She nodded regretfully and seated herself in the chair next to his, whereupon the odd expression returned and she sniffed again. Andrahar looked at her quizzically. "Is my lady falling ill?" 

Nimrien shook her head, leaned closer to the captain and sniffed once more.

"What is that scent you are wearing?"

"'Tis no scent, 'tis merely soap. I seem to recollect you ordering me to use some before my return." Andrahar's expression was absolutely deadpan, but Imrahil could discern the twinkle deep in his eyes.

Nimrien blushed with embarrassment. "I did not mean to imply that you needed a bath, Andra," she said contritely, "merely that you should make sure your hands were clean."

"That was not what it sounded like to me, lady, though I apologize if I misinterpreted," came the bland response. Oh yes, the Swan Knight was definitely having his fun.

"It does smell very nice," the archivist declared, recovering herself and sniffing yet again. "What is in it? Sandalwood?"

"Among other things," Andrahar admitted, watching her olfactory explorations with a cocked eyebrow. "It is an old family recipe. I had a soap maker in Dol Amroth make some up for me right before we journeyed here."

Imrahil, who was observing Nimrien's reaction with growing excitement, asked, "The soap maker makes it only for you, Andra?"

"Yes, my lord prince."

"I don't suppose you would part with the recipe?"

"No, my lord prince."

"Why not?"

Andrahar threw him a wry look. "Because you will have Dol Amroth and all of its riches one day, you possess the favor of every maiden in Belfalas, and you have enough clothing and horses and weapons and jewelry for six men, while I have nothing but my blade, my skill, my wits and a soap recipe. You shall _not_ have my soap, Imrahil!"

Nimrien laughed, and the Heir did as well--all the while contemplating the possibility of using his princely authority to round up all of Dol Amroth's soap makers and interrogate them until they cracked. Nimrien's reaction looked very promising indeed…

************

Finduilas did join them a short time later, when they'd just settled down to reading in earnest. 

"Andra!" she exclaimed, a pleased look upon her face. "'Tis good to see you again!"

The Swan Knight immediately rose and bowed.

"My lady. 'Tis good to see you as well." His eyes widened slightly as she threw her arms about him and gave him a peck on the cheek She seemed unmoved by his soap and released him readily enough, only to be enfolded in turn in her brother's hearty embrace.

"Ribs, Imri!" she protested breathlessly after a moment.

"Ribs, indeed!" he growled. "I can count every one of yours! You should come home for a bit, Fin, and let us feed you up."

"Perhaps we shall, after all of this is over," Finduilas said wistfully. "I know that Father would love to spend some time with the boys--Faramir is just now starting to be interesting--and I will admit that I miss the Sea. And besides, we are half the way there anyway! I shall speak to Denethor about it. But for now, what can I do to help you?"

She seated herself in the chair beside her brother, listened intently to the explanation of what they were looking for, then took a book from the top of the pile on that side of the table, and started looking through it. Imrahil followed suit, as did the others. There was not much conversation between the researchers after that, just the occasional comment, the riffling of pages, and requests to be passed another book.

Some of the books could be discarded as useless fairly quickly. Others required much closer examination. After a couple of hours, Imrahil sent for some refreshments, and food and drink were brought and placed upon a side table, along with a washbasin and towels for washing hands. By unspoken agreement, the searchers all got up, stretched a bit and partook of the refreshments.

"Nothing at all worth speaking of so far," Nimrien declared. "The closest Andra and I have come was that lay about some war between two desert tribes. I hoped that there would be some mention of how peace was restored, but I gather that there were not enough warriors left after the conflict to make anything but peace possible. The desert tribes are certainly fierce!"

"That story is legend even among my folk," Andrahar commented over the rim of his cup, "and it is rather exaggerated, particularly the tally of the dead. The sand-rats are fierce warriors, but they do not wish for their tribes to perish to a man any more than any other folk do. They do negotiate, though they are prickly people. Unfortunately, all I know about their negotiations is how difficult they are to haggle with in the bazaars, which I suspect is not the same thing as how they bargain among themselves. When they are among the outland tribes, they hold to our customs. Which makes all this insistence upon following their rules all the more peculiar--their customs are not ours."

"Have you had any luck so far, Imrahil, Finduilas?" Nimrien asked. Finduilas shook her head.

"No, though I did find a treatise about some former treaties. I held that one out in the event that it might prove useful to Denethor later."

"And I unfortunately found nothing of use, though something of interest," Imrahil said with a grin. "A book of love poetry. 'Tis astounding how obsessed the Haradrim are with pomegranates and breasts, and comparing the two." Nimrien's brow furrowed, and she moved over to the table to peer closely at a small blue volume that lay before Imrahil's seat.

"How odd. I could have sworn that I put that one back in the trunk. It is certainly of no use to us…" A sudden suspicion crossed her mind, and she turned to glare at the Heir, who was popping dates into his mouth with an expression of beatific innocence upon his face.

"Imrahil…."

"My lady, I merely endeavor to examine that which is put before me to the best of my ability." Nimrien gave him a dour look.

"Well, put that one back in the trunk. We haven't the time for such digressions." Imrahil shook his head.

"No, I think I will set it aside to read later. It was very…inspiring. I feel a sudden compelling urge to consume…pomegranates." He eyed his desired lady hopefully. "Perhaps when we have resolved this matter, you and I could engage in a bit of literary criticism." The archivist rolled her eyes and Finduilas chuckled.

"Do not encourage him, Nimrien. Surely you know that by now."

"I was not encouraging him, I was trying to _discourage_ him!"

"It's not working," Imrahil supplied helpfully. Andrahar, who had just finished washing his hands, moved back to his seat with a hint of a smile.

"I would suggest a blunt object applied directly between the eyes with considerable force, my lady. It is probably the only thing that _will_ work." The young Prince gave him a look of injured betrayal and Nimrien snickered despite herself.

"First you refuse to share your soap, and now this!" Imrahil complained to Andrahar, while managing at the same time to gaze upon Nimrien with large, pitiful eyes. "Was ever a prince served so ill?" 

"'Tis likely no more than you deserve, brother!" Finduilas declared laughingly, taking him by the elbow and urging him over to the washbasin. "Enough with the drama! Come, wash up and let us get back to work. Your courtship, if that is what you care to call it, can wait."

************

They dug through the piles of books for another couple of fruitless hours, deeply immersed in their task. The long windows showed the light fading, and lamps were lit against the growing dark. The Steward of Gondor and the Prince of Dol Amroth showed up at the door soon after, looking weary and frustrated.

"More of the same, Father?" Imrahil asked Adrahil, who nodded.

"I believe I will retire early this evening, Imrahil. I am very tired." The Heir, Nimrien and Andrahar all gave him concerned looks, which caused him to shake his head and laugh shortly.

"Naught to concern yourselves with--I am simply weary." Despite his reassurances, Andrahar immediately got to his feet.

"I will accompany you, my lord. You must be stiff from all that sitting." Adrahil smiled fondly at the young captain.

"The man with the magic hands, eh? I will not object." Turning to Denethor, he inclined his head graciously. "Good night, my lord Steward." Then, to the others--"Good night, Finduilas, Nimrien, Imrahil." Nodding abruptly to Denethor, Andrahar brushed past the Steward and unobtrusively took the Prince's elbow, moving with him into his private chambers. The others could hear their voices, conversing quietly, beyond the door.

"'Magic hands?'" Denethor inquired sardonically, eyebrow arched.

"Andra is very good at working the kinks out of muscles," Imrahil explained. "There's a Khandian masseuse at--" he started to say _the Fairweather_, but stopped himself, "--in Dol Amroth, and he has studied how the man does things. It's very soothing, and helps Father fall to sleep."

"Quite the jack-of-all-trades your Haradrim is," the Steward remarked dryly. "He's a warrior, a scholar, and even a valet at need! It is a wonder the rest of your staff has anything to do at all."

"Please, Denethor, can you not strive to be pleasant?" Finduilas asked quietly. "I know that you do not care for Andra, but he is my friend." The Steward looked down at her broodingly for a moment, then smiled, his saturnine expression softening.

"I apologize, my lady. It has been such a task to hold my temper all this day that I suppose I am letting it slip now--and at all the wrong people." Glancing at the piles of books, he asked, "Have you found anything of use yet?"

"No, my lord," Nimrien answered him, "but we're not halfway through yet. Something may still turn up that will be helpful."

"Valar, let us hope so! I do not wish to begin a war with Gondor just come into my keeping," Denethor declared. He held out his hand to Finduilas. "Come, my lady. You have been at this long enough, and your company will do much to ease my cares." Finduilas rose and came to him, showing him the book she had found earlier.

"I thought that you might find this interesting." He took it, keen eyes glancing over the title, then the first few pages.

"I read this long ago, I think, when I visited your home, but I do not remember much of it. Yes, this might indeed be interesting. Thank you, my lady." The book in one hand, his other holding her arm gently, he paused for a moment before turning to the door.

"I do not know if any of this will prove to be of use or not, but I thank you all for making the attempt." Nimrien and Imrahil murmured polite acknowledgements, he inclined his head gravely, and left with his lady.

When they had gone, Nimrien turned her attention back to her books. Imrahil thought for a moment about taking the opportunity to steal another kiss since the two of them were alone, but duty called, and with a quiet sigh, he bent his head over his work once more. He was riffling through the pages of an extremely boring book about Khandian/Haradrim trade agreements, when he got the feeling that he was being watched, and looked up to see his father's archivist smiling at him, her eyes warm. The book of poetry had somehow found its way into her hands.

"Pomegranates?" Nimrien inquired, her eyebrow raised.

"Pomegranates," Imrahil confirmed, grinning back at her.

************

Andrahar returned some time later, declaring that Prince Adrahil had been settled into bed and was resting comfortably, and if the Captain was unenthused about resuming his scholarly duties, he said nothing about it. The three searchers decided to forego the formal dinner and make due with the food that had been brought earlier, that they might have more time for their research. Full dark fell and during the evening hours, they worked through two thirds of the selected books. 

Eyes tired, and minds grew weary. Imrahil stretched a lot, not realizing that he was being almost compulsive about it until he looked up from a good, spine-cracking one and saw his fellow readers glaring at him. Nimrien took to rubbing the back of her neck beneath the coiled mass of her hair, unaware that the Heir was wishing that he might do the same. Andrahar seemed the least affected, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed at the ankle and resting the books he examined upon his chest as he read them.

The bell-towers of Pelargir were ringing midnight, and Imrahil was about to suggest that they cease their efforts until the next morning, when Nimrien gasped. Both men looked up to find her reading one of the older books most intently, her finger following the lines as she muttered the words under her breath.

"Have you found something we can use, Nimrien?" Imrahil asked curiously. She looked up, her eyes shining.

"Not something we can use, Imri. I think I may have found _exactly_ what we are looking for!" The young Prince got up and leaned over her shoulder, and after a moment, Andrahar followed suit.

"That's one of the Westron books," Imrahil protested. "I'm the one who is supposed to be working on those."

"I got tired of reading Haradric," Nimrien explained. "There are not that many of the Haradric books left, and the script was hurting my eyes. Besides, it matters little who does it so long as it gets done." 

Acknowledging the truth of that statement, Imrahil turned the book over, still clasped in Nimrien's hand, and looked at the title. _Among The Savages,_ it read rather floridly, _A Journal Of Explorations In The Wilder Regions of Harad And Khand By Meneldor of Lebennin._

She turned it back, and indicated the place she was holding with a finger. _Chapter Ten. Among The Desert Folk, Part Two. In Which A Wedding Takes Place, And Water Rights Are Discussed. Treaties And Negotiation Amongst The Savages Of The Deep Desert. _


	7. Chapter Seven

"Meneldor was a hack," the Steward of Gondor commented the next morning, when told over a breakfast limited to his and the Prince's family of the discoveries of the previous night. "His prose lumbers along like a drunken Mûmak."

"Perhaps, my lord, but he was a hack who did go where he said he did, and see what he said he saw," replied Nimrien, her face pale and eyes dark-circled from lack of sleep. "His literary ability is not the issue here." Imrahil and Andrahar, equally exhausted, sat quietly eating their breakfasts. They had spent the remainder of the night looking through the rest of the books, only to find that Nimrien's discovery was the only useful piece of information available.

"So--how do the desert tribes negotiate, according to the esteemed Meneldor?" Denethor asked.

"When there is a dispute between them, they draw lots to see upon whose territory the negotiations will be held."

The Steward sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Why do they not just pick some third, neutral location?"

"There are only so many places in the deep desert that have sufficient water to support many people," Andrahar interjected, "and to use another tribe's oasis would require negotiating treaties with them as well. The web of alliance and enmity is complex, and the desert folk are very insular."

Denethor fastened his piercing glance upon Andrahar for a moment, then lowered his eyes to his cup once more. "It would seem that the tribe that held the negotiations upon its home ground would have a subtle advantage."

"Ah, but that's where this Speaker business comes in," Nimrien said. "The tribe that loses the contest chooses a Speaker from among them to represent them, and he comes with his entourage to the other tribe, and pitches his tent, which is symbolically considered to be the his tribe's territory for the duration. Then the host tribe sends to him a selection of their tribe's more notable members and _he _selects _their _Speaker."

"Thus negating the advantage. I see. Or perhaps even conferring one upon his folk. I know _I_ would prefer to concede the place of negotiation in order to have the negotiator I wished doing my business for me. It would seem that the tribe that wins the contest of lots actually loses."

"And we are that tribe," said Imrahil, speaking at last. "They are here, in Pelargir, on our territory. If we are to negotiate a treaty with them, it will be with the representative that they select."

"Which brings me to my second question. How exactly does the selection occur?"

"That is where Meneldor's account grows vague, my lord," Nimrien admitted ruefully. "He has little to say about that other than it involves some sort of test. Apparently, he was not allowed to witness that part of the process, or he could not find anyone to tell him what went on--or it changed from Speaker to Speaker. In any event, we could not find anything to tell us what takes place--other than that the Speaker and the candidates share a meal."

"Do we invite their Speaker or do we go to him?"

"We go to him," Imrahil said quietly. "We announce that we have our candidates, and then he hosts the meal." The Steward sighed.

"I mislike this very much. It seems as if we are playing the game entirely by their rules."

"Well, the alternative is for us to take our toys and go home," Adrahil commented, speaking for the first time, though he had been watching the conversation most intently. "But if that is what you wish to do, Denethor, then I will back you on it."

"Thank you, Father," the Steward said with a surprisingly earnest show of gratitude.

__

He is feeling the pressure of this situation, Imrahil thought to himself, picking up his cup of tea and taking a sip. _He has been Steward barely a year. To be the one who starts a war with Harad, a war we might very well lose--I am sure that is not how he wants history to remember him!_

"It may not be such a bad thing for us to go along with their plans, Denethor," Finduilas said suddenly, looking up from where she was endeavoring to get more porridge into the inside of Faramir than upon the outside. This task was complicated by the fact that Faramir very much wanted to feed himself, and kept grabbing the spoon. Boromir was being very quiet and well-behaved by comparison, though Imrahil did see him start to say something once, only to be quelled by a look from Andrahar.

"What do you mean, my lady?" Denethor asked his wife.

"Did you not say that this desert lord has never been seen in the high councils of Harad before now? And did you not tell me that the desert people usually have little say in how Harad is governed? I do not believe they expect us to solve their little puzzle. You are dismayed at the prospect of Lord Khuzayam selecting our chief negotiator, but I have to wonder if the Haradrim would not be equally dismayed at the prospect of Lord Khuzayam actually _acting_ astheir chief negotiator."

Denethor sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. "You make a valid point, Finduilas," he acknowledged. "I suppose it would do no harm to play this game of theirs out a bit further, since the other option is so very grim." He straightened, then rose to his feet. "Father, Imrahil, will you attend me? We must speak with the others and decide who our list of candidates will be. I think we have just enough time before the morning session. It will be very…interesting to see what the Haradrim reaction will be." His smile was decidedly unpleasant.

**********

"This Lord Khuzayam is not a first-rank noble of Harad," Forlyn of Lossarnach declared, when the situation had been explained to himself, Hurin, and Denethor's other advisors, "so it would be inappropriate for you to offer yourself as a candidate, my lord Steward--always providing you actually intend to go through with this farce. It would imply that we are over-eager and are not bargaining from a position of strength."

"I do intend to go through with it, but I also agree with you about my participation," Denethor said calmly. "And for that same reason, Prince Adrahil should be excluded as a candidate as well. The Prince of Dol Amroth is hardly the same rank as the lord of a band of sand-scrabbling nomads." Adrahil said nothing to this, either yea or nay, but a couple of the advisors looked crestfallen. They were apparently hoping that the Prince would bring his brand of calm common sense to the proceedings.

"You, Forlyn," the Steward continued, "are a logical candidate, should you be willing to include yourself in the 'farce'." The Lord of Lossarnach inclined his head.

"The farce was not of your making, my lord, and I stand ready to serve you in any way I can."

"We need more than one, however," Imrahil put in, "for there to be a choice."

"Indeed. And there is the question of the nature of the unknown test," his father added. "What if it is some sort of physical contest? Forlyn, you are a doughty fellow, but you are not much younger than I. I think we should include at least one younger man, in the event that such a trial takes place."

"What you are too polite to say, Adrahil, is that I shall not shine unless it is an _eating_ contest!" the overlarge Forlyn chuckled. "We've got young Hurin here, and your Imrahil. Let this Lord Khuzayam choose from one of them if he likes."

"It could be argued that the same conditions which disqualify Adrahil also disqualify his heir," mused Denethor. 

"But there is no argument that, were it not for Imrahil, none of us would be standing here having this discussion!" said Adrahil tartly. " So I think he should be included. He will survive the slight to his dignity."

Recognizing the storm warnings of his father-in-law's temper, Denethor capitulated gracefully.

"Hurin should be included as well. That gives us three. Need we any more?" 

"I do not know," Imrahil said honestly. "But three seems a reasonable number to me. Less than a mob, more than a pair. And you do not want them choosing one of the under-clerks." _Though I expect the Steward might consider even the under-clerk preferable to me!_

"Indeed. Very well then, my lords, let us go and see if we can take this game a step further."

************

As before, the dignitaries of the two nations gathered around the conference table. And once they were all seated, as before, the man at the right hand of Lord Khuzayam repeated his rote formula.

"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."

Hearing the phraseology once more, Imrahil wondered with a sudden panic if they had made a mistake. Perhaps they were supposed to merely present a Speaker rather than a choice? After all, they were not even certain what tribe Lord Khuzayam was from, or if all the tribes held to the same customs! Meneldor's journeys had taken place four hundred years ago--perhaps the custom had changed…He looked at Denethor, who had bowed his head over the documents before him, and wondered if the same doubts were assailing the Steward.

"As is the ancient custom, our Speaker, Lord Khuzayam, awaits your Speaker."

The Steward lifted his head, and smiled serenely.

"We would not wish to deprive Lord Khuzayam of his privilege. As is the ancient custom, our candidates for Speaker await his pleasure: Forlyn, Lord of Lossarnach and chief among Gondor's council; Lord Hurin, Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith; and Prince Imrahil, Heir to Dol Amroth."

The Haradric end of the table fell utterly silent. Imrahil, watching the appalled, angry and accusing looks crossing back and forth, began to feel a faint stirring of hope.

Then the silence was broken as the ever-silent Lord Khuzayam began to laugh. His laughter went on for some time as all present simply watched him. When he stopped laughing, it was to whisper something into the ear of his right-hand man. That nameless lord inclined his head politely and spoke.

"Lords Forlyn and Hurin, Prince Imrahil, it is Lord Khuzayam's desire that you attend upon him at dusk. We will break bread together, and he will make his selection then. Until then, he asks that you excuse us--there is much preparation to be made. This session is adjourned." 

With that, Lord Khuzayam rose, and left the room, his two attendants following closely. The rest of the Haradrim got up and departed in more disorderly fashion, many among them already arguing. Lord Asadel's urbane, diplomatic mask slipped for a moment as he left, shooting Denethor a fulminating glare over his shoulder. The Steward merely smiled once more in that same maddeningly calm manner. When they had departed, he looked over at Imrahil.

"It would seem, my lord prince, that though Meneldor was a hack, he was at least an _accurate_ hack. Please give my thanks to the Lady Nimrien and your Captain Andrahar. I will convey mine to my lady personally. And I would suggest that you use the day to get some rest, that you might have your wits about you for tonight. Father." Nodding to Adrahil, he rose and left in the company of Hurin and Forlyn, his clerks fluttering out anxiously behind him like a gaggle of geese.

"'Thank you, Imrahil.' Would that have been so hard to say?" the Heir asked his father, lips twitching.

"I am sure that the omission was entirely unintentional," Adrahil assured him, struggling to keep a straight face. The two men burst out laughing at the same moment. "He does have the right of one thing, though, my son," the Prince said when their mirth had finally subsided. "You need to rest. Your eyes are like dark holes in your head." Imrahil threw up his hands in surrender.

"I am going, I am going! What will you do with the rest of your day?" Adrahil gave his heir a smile that was mostly charm with the slightest hint of evil.

"I thought that I might catch up on my reading. There are all these books scattered about my chambers for some reason…."

************

Nimrien met him in the corridor outside of his rooms. "_What happened?_" she asked anxiously. "Why have you adjourned so early?" Imrahil laid his hands upon her shoulders, and endeavored to look somber. It must have been convincing, for she sucked in a breath and asked, "Are we at war?"

"Nay, lady," he said, taking mercy upon her after a moment and smiling broadly. "We adjourned so that Lord Khuzayam could prepare a feast for this evening for the potential Speakers-of whom I am one. You were _right_, Nimrien--you found us exactly what we needed!"

The archivist's eyes lit up, and she leapt up exuberantly, casting her arms about Imrahil's neck. Never one to lose an opportunity, he wrapped his arms about her waist, and spun her about, her feet flying into the air.

"You are a very, very clever lady!" he exclaimed.

"And you are…impossible, impudent…and rather clever yourself," she admitted breathlessly. "Now put me down!" When he complied, she smoothed her hair and skirts and smiled up at him. "I am so very glad, Imri--I have been worrying ever since you convened, and there was no way to get any news."

"We still have to make our way through this choosing of the Speaker," he warned her. "The negotiations have not truly started yet. But I feel more hopeful now. My father and the Steward both tell me I should go to bed that I may be rested for the evening, so I fear that I must leave you, lady." She waited for a moment for the inevitable proposition, and when it did not come, frowned concernedly at him.

"Are you feeling quite yourself, my lord prince?"

"What do you mean?" he asked. "I am tired, and I am sure that you are too. You were up all night long and would be best served to seek your rest as well." Once again, there was that odd pause. The smile, which had never left his face, grew larger the more her bafflement increased.

Suddenly he threw back his head, and laughed, and said, all in a rush--"And-since-you-have-to-rest-and-I-have-to-rest-why-do-we-not-rest-together-my-bed-is-big-enough-and-I-promise-to-be-a-gentleman-and-as-I-hold-you-in-the-deepest-respect-your-virtue-would-be-perfectly-safe-I seek-merely-friendly-companionship-and-would-that-be-so-very-awful-my-lady-my-dove-my-little-pomegranate?" He cocked his head to the side and grinned at her. "There. Feel better now?"

Nimrien sighed in genuine relief. "Much better. Thank you, my lord. I think that I could rest now." She dropped him a curtsey, and departed in the direction of her rooms. 

Chuckling and shaking his head, he made his way to his own chamber, which adjoined Andrahar's. Cracking the door open, he peered into the next room to find his sworn brother asleep in bed, his right arm under the pillow--most likely clasping some deadly weapon. His sword hung by the bedpost close to hand. Andrahar did not snore that Imrahil had ever heard, and even when asleep he did not look sweet or child-like, though some of the severity that animated his countenance when awake departed. He was not a man who found it easy to relax, which was one reason he enjoyed getting massages at the Fairweather so much. His brothel bill was quite respectable for a man who never slept with prostitutes.

"What are you doing hanging in the door? Either come in or go away and let me sleep," came a grumble from the bed suddenly, and the Prince realized that irritated dark eyes were fastened upon him. Andrahar was a light sleeper too, most of the time.

"Sorry, Andra. Just checking on you, to see how you were."

"_Tired _is how I am! How did things go?"

"Very well. We were right about the Speaker business. Lord Khuzayam has invited three of us to dinner tonight to select one. I am one of the candidates."

"It is good to know that all that reading was not in vain."

"Come now--you like poetry as well as the next person."

"_You_ had the only book of poetry last night and it is wretched stuff. I know because I read it once. Now go get some sleep!" The last statement came out in an exasperated growl, and Imrahil hastily departed. Because of their researches last night, Andra would have had to have someone else fill in for him this morning, and he was always very irritable when he had to admit weakness or was drawn away for whatever reason from what he saw as his primary duty.

With no further ado, the Prince lowered the shades, removed his garments, folded them neatly and crawled gratefully into his own bed. Some worry over what was to come that evening occupied his mind briefly as he lay there, but eventually weariness overcame him and he managed to sleep despite the growing warmth of the day.


	8. Chapter Eight

Dusk found three well-dressed Gondorian nobles standing before the door to Lord Khuzayam's chambers, guest-gifts in their hands. There had been no mention of such in Meneldor's account, but it was a Gondorian custom, and one they'd decided would be unlikely to give offence. So Forlyn had sacrificed from his store of fruit preserves, bringing an assortment of the best that Lossarnach had to offer, Hurin had a fine pair of hawking gauntlets, and Imrahil a pouch of small, though perfectly matched pearls, suitable for embellishing garments.

One of Khuzayam's attendants opened the door and admitted them, bowing low. The parlor room had undergone quite a transformation, and looked very much like the interior of a tent, with hangings before the windows, lamps of pierced metal hanging everywhere, and rugs and cushions covering the floors. A long low table, its legs too short to be of use except by folk reclining upon the cushions, sat in the center of the room. There was no way of knowing whether this had been done for Lord Khuzayam's comfort upon his arrival, or whether it had been created specifically for the dinner, but it was most impressive and exotic.

Lord Khuzayam himself entered then, clad in robes of shimmering white silk. He bowed, and spoke directly to them for the first time in passable if accented Westron.

"Be welcome to my….tent, my lords."

Forlyn, as the senior member of the party, replied. "We thank you for your hospitality, my lord, and ask that you accept these gifts as a token of our regard."

The desert lord accepted the guest-gifts one by one, making appreciative compliments, then handing them to the attendant. When the presentation was done, a gracious gesture indicated that they should seat themselves, which the three of them did after bowing to him in turn. Forlyn had some difficulty finding his way down to the cushions safely, but Lord Khuzayam, though far older than any of them, settled himself with the ease of a man who'd spent his whole life doing so.

When all were seated, Khuzayam clapped his hands, and servants began to process in, bearing all manner of steaming dishes and plates, napkins and utensils, which they set upon the low table, bowing low in respect and immediately departing afterwards. Their host cast a critical eye over the table when they were done, and apparently found it to his liking, for he smiled.

"Now we will break bread together and share some tales, for though I come to Umbar from time to time, I seldom have speech with one of the Gondorrim, much less three! Tell me of your homeland, and yourselves."

Thus encouraged, the three men began to speak of their homes and families. The Haradrim envoy in turn spoke of his tribe, and the harshness of life in the deep desert. He had questions about certain of their customs, which they answered to the best of their abilities. They were all on their best behavior, and the Heir thought that they were making a favorable impression, though it was a bit difficult to tell--Lord Khuzayam's pleasant demeanor revealed little of his true thought. The conversation never strayed from the personal, and there was no mention of the treaty or politics.

The dinner passed enjoyably, despite the strangeness of the food, most of which seemed very highly spiced to the more northern palates of the Gondorian delegates. Hurin seemed to have the most trouble with it; but then, he had a delicate stomach. Forlyn's appetite rose to the occasion, though even he balked at the honey-fried locusts. Imrahil manfully gave them a try, and found them interestingly crunchy and not too objectionable. 

Throughout the meal, he was reminded of Andrahar, who from time to time complained that he missed this dish or the other, and was in the habit of perpetually scouring the markets of Dol Amroth in search of the tiny, scorching hot peppers that grew in the southern regions of Harad. Imrahil wished that there was some way of taking some of the food to him; Dol Amroth, being a port city, had a tavern or two that served what they called Haradrim cuisine, but apparently it was not the sort of cooking that was done in Andrahar's province, and he thought it bland and tasteless. One of the cooks in the castle kitchen had taken pity upon the Armsmaster, and with Andrahar's help had recreated a recipe for a lamb stew which he particularly loved, and would prepare it for him from time to time. Otherwise, Imrahil's sworn brother rarely got to enjoy his homeland's cuisine, except when he was in Pelargir, where they did have establishments that served food to his liking. _I must take him out to dinner before we leave Pelargir…_Imrahil told himself.

He emerged from this culinary reverie to find the other three men looking at him expectantly, and wondered what he had missed.

"I am sorry," he said with a slightly embarrassed smile. "I was just thinking of how much Captain Andrahar would enjoy this meal."

Lord Khuzayam, foregoing whatever topic they had been discussing, smiled in his turn. "Ah yes, your Bakshir. I noted him earlier."

"Bakshir?" Hurin inquired, intrigued. The desert lord made a graceful, indeterminate gesture with both hands and shoulders.

"The realm that I suspect he comes from. He has their arrogance. And the stamp of their late lord Isfhandijar upon his face."

"Truly?" Forlyn asked, suddenly curious as well. "Imrahil! You did not tell us that Andrahar was the son of a lord! I always understood him to be some urchin you found in the stews of Umbar!"

"Andrahar does not speak of his past to me," Imrahil said quietly, which was an untruth. The Heir was well aware that his friend was Isfhandijar's bastard, but he also knew that Andra would not appreciate that fact becoming public knowledge. So he made his statement in as disinterested a voice as possible, hoping to discourage further commentary upon the subject. Lord Khuzayam gave him a keen look, but let the matter drop and changed the subject; to one that was no more comfortable and the first reference to the negotiations that had yet taken place.

"I must confess, I am curious about something. How was it that your lord Denethor discerned our custom of the Speakers? My tribe is an obscure one."

The three Gondorians looked at each other for a moment, then Forlyn, as the senior member, replied.

"That was all Prince Imrahil's doing. The rest of us were baffled." The ambassador looked at Imrahil curiously.

"How did you solve the puzzle then, my lord Prince?"

Imrahil considered carefully for a moment before answering. He did not wish to embroil Captain Faris in any more difficulty than he was already in, and decided that it would be best not to mention him at all.

"My father's archivist accompanied us upon this journey," he said at last. "I do not know if you have seen her." 

Khuzayam inclined his head. "A very lovely young woman, though I will never become accustomed to the way you let your ladies walk about with their faces bare."

The Heir stifled a smile at the thought of someone telling Nimrien she should go veiled. "She is indeed lovely," he agreed, "and learned as well. Many books about your folk she brought with her, in the event that they might prove useful to my father or the Lord Denethor. When we realized that the Speakers were important, Nimrien, my sister Finduilas, Captain Andrahar and myself searched all of them for a mention of the custom. We were fortunate that we found it in one of the books."

"How odd. And how fortuitous."

"Yes. If only Imrahil were so lucky in love!" Forlyn chuckled. "The lady is knowledgeable and learned enough that she is refusing his attentions!"

"Lord Forlyn, I hardly think that is an appropriate remark!" Hurin protested, but Lord Khuzayam smiled broadly of a sudden, his teeth bright in his dark face.

"She will have none of you?" he asked Imrahil.

"I am…endeavoring…to persuade her otherwise," the Prince replied with as much dignity as he could muster. The ambassador laughed heartily.

"My late wife was at first unconvinced of my worth as well, Prince Imrahil, and we lived near forty years together most blissfully. The best women are always the hardest ones to win!"

"That is good to know, my lord. Most encouraging, in fact."

Further discussion of Imrahil's vicissitudes in love was interrupted by the arrival of dessert--honeyed almond cakes and more of the thick bean-tea that had been served throughout the meal, and the conversation returned to its former polite, impersonal level. The four men chatted companionably until the cakes had been consumed (Forlyn being most enthusiastic in his appreciation of them), whereupon Lord Khuzayam straightened, and folded his hands in his lap.

"Gentlemen, it has been a very great pleasure to meet all of you. But I may test only one as Speaker for Gondor, and I have made my decision. Prince Imrahil, you will remain." Forlyn and Hurin bowed their heads in assent, and Khuzayam rang a small bell. Servants came into the room, bearing gifts in their turn; a fine embroidered robes of the desert folk for both men. These were accepted graciously by Imrahil's fellow candidates, and Lord Khuzayam rose to see them to the door, indicating with a gesture that the Prince should remain seated.

Imrahil did so, and when the door had closed behind them, Khuzayam returned to his seat, situated himself once more, and politely refilled Imrahil's cup of bean-tea.

"Do you play chess, my lord prince?" he asked.

"I do, my lord, though I am not a great player. Lord Denethor would give you a far more challenging contest." The desert lord shrugged.

"I am not counted the most formidable player among my folk either. Shall we try each other's skills?"

"As my lord wishes. I find the game enjoyable." Once again the bell, and a rather lengthy and inaudible whisper into the ear of the servant who had swiftly appeared.

__

This is not so bad, Imrahil thought as they waited for a chess-board to be brought. _If the trial is to be a chess game, then that is much better than many of the possibilities I've been considering. But then the question arises--should I play to win or lose? Always assuming that I'm enough of a match for him that I actually have a choice!_ He decided to simply play the best he could, and see how things fell out.

The board, when the servant brought it, was an old and obviously much-loved one, the squares fashioned of light and dark wood, and bordered with a decorative inlay in several colors of wood. The pieces, which Khuzayam drew from a box with matching inlay, were carved of Mû mak tusk, the 'black' pieces being dyed with some substance that had turned them a dark brown.

"'Tis a lovely set, Lord Khuzayam," Imrahil declared with utmost sincerity. The Haradrim's fingers caressed the black king fondly. 

"It has been in my family for a long time."

"There is a set in Minas Tirith, in the King's House, that is believed to be the oldest in Gondor. 'Tis said to have come from Numenor."

"There are such old things in Umbar as well, relics of the Ship-Kings. Needless to say, this is not one of them." The desert lord swiftly set up the pieces, with the white towards Imrahil. "As you are my guest, I give you the advantage."

The young prince inclined his head. "I thank you for your consideration. And I shall probably need it," he admitted with a smile.

The game began then with no further ceremony. Imrahil sent his pieces forward cautiously, to find himself countered with equal caution by Khuzayam. For a while there was no talk, the two men sipping their bean-tea as they each considered their moves in turn. The Haradrim had just completed a sally that Imrahil was contemplating counters for, when the Heir caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.

A dog had entered the room, the sound of its paws muffled upon the carpets. It was a sight-hound of some sort, but Imrahil had never seen the like of it before, long-legged and narrow-headed, with a gracefully arching neck and back and tucked up flank. Tawny hair that gleamed like silk coated it and dangled in soft fringes from its ears and legs and long, slender tail. An extremely ornate, wide collar of embroidered leather adorned it.

The dog made its way to Khuzayam, and thrust its head beneath his hand imperiously. The desert lord chuckled, and began to ruffle the long, silken ears and stroke its head.

"Did you get lonely, my beauty?" he asked. "Well, you are well come. We have a guest tonight." As if in response to his words, the hound turned its dark gaze curiously upon Imrahil and padded around the table to him.

The Prince, having spent many occasions in his youth hunting with hounds with his sport-loving mother, slowly extended his hand palm up and allowed the dog to sniff it. When the sniffing was done, he curled his fingers up cautiously under the narrow jaw and began to scratch gently. The hound's eyes half-closed with pleasure and its head sagged until Imrahil was supporting its weight as he scratched. Taking this as a sign of approval, he slowly slid his scratching fingers up the cheek and to the ear, whereupon the dog sighed gustily and abruptly flopped down beside him, laying its head across his knee.

Imrahil grinned with delight. "She is indeed beautiful, my lord. I have never before seen her like."

Khuzayam gave the dog comprised of affection and pride in equal measures. "'Tis not likely you would, my lord prince. We of the desert have little enough that men would call treasure, save for our horses, hounds and hawks, and those we keep close."

"I can understand why."

"You, it is said, are a great horseman among your people--when you are not being a scourge of the seas. Tell me of your steeds."

The conversation then strayed into equine avenues while the game continued, Imrahil fondling the hounds ears till it fell asleep with its head upon his knee. Intrigued by Khuzayam's description of the fiery horses of his people, the Heir expressed regret that the embassy had arrived by ship, since had they come by land, he might have seen some of the desert steeds.

"I saw a captain mounted on what might have been one of your horses once, during a border skirmish," he said, regrouping against one of the desert lord's attacks.

"One of our culls," Khuzayam said dismissively. "T'was a gelding, was it not?"

"Now that you mention it, I believe so."

"Only the best of the stallions do we keep--the others are gelded and sold. There is a good market for even our worst. The mares who are not of sufficient quality we slay and eat." The Prince blinked.

"That seems harsh, for you obviously love your horses very much."

"The desert is a harsh place. There is little enough to nourish even our best horses. 'Tis kinder that we who love them consume them then that the sands kill them. Our mares are precious to us--the bloodlines descend through the dam. And after having chosen only the best for generations beyond count, the ones that remain are extraordinary indeed. We do not allow breeding stock to fall into the hands of strangers."

"I fear that Gondor's horses must look poor in comparison."

Khuzayam sipped some more bean-tea. Imrahil had to wonder where he was putting it all--it seemed to have little effect upon him, while the Heir was beginning to feel somewhat fidgety.

"I have been in your stables," the desert lord admitted. "Accompanied by your knights, of course. Some of your war-horses are lovely indeed--large and strong, and well-suited, I deem, for the purposes you put them to. But they could not live in our deserts. There was an iron-grey who was particularly fine. He had a star upon his face." Imrahil ducked his head to hide his smile, but Khuzayam saw it nonetheless, and chuckled.

"Yours?"

"Mine. He is young yet, and still under training."

"He suits you." Imrahil wondered if that were some sort of subtle inference that he too was unseasoned, but decided to let it pass.

"Siyesha! Siyesha!" a voice from the door called softly of a sudden. The hound's head snapped up, and she rose, stretched and stalked leisurely off in that direction. The Prince looked over curiously while he rubbed his thigh, which had fallen asleep beneath the weight of her head. A small figure swathed in veils and robes stood there.

Khuzayam looked up and frowned, speaking in his native tongue.

"A'isha, what do you here? It is past time that you were abed."

"I feared that Siyesha had gone wandering, and would run afoul of these outlanders," lisped the voice of a young girl in accented Haradric. "I could not sleep without knowing where she was. And besides, she keeps me warm." The hound circled around behind the girl and then slid under her arm, which she crooked about its slender neck tightly. Siyesha endured the embrace with an expression of long-suffering patience so eloquent that Imrahil laughed softly.

The desert lord leaned back, and crooked an eyebrow.

"Hmmmmm, I think perhaps that, rather than retrieve Siyesha, you wished to sneak a look at the outland lord," he said severely. "But no matter. Now that you are here, you may make yourself useful. Take Siyesha off, and put her in our room. And bring some more refreshments for our guest."

Big black eyes scrutinized Imrahil for a moment. "He is very handsome!" A'isha declared, then giggled and departed, taking the dog with her. Khuzayam watched them go, shaking his head.

"I apologize for my wife, Prince Imrahil," he said in Westron. 

"She is charming," the Prince said swiftly. _But no more than nine years old! _he thought, astonished. _How can she be married to such an elderly man? Surely they do not…_he struggled to stop speculating, or to seem that he was doing so.

But the desert lord gave him a knowing look."She is my wife in name only, my lord prince," he said with a smile. "Different though our customs may be, we are in accord about what is the appropriate treatment of children. She shares my bed to keep my old bones warm, and naught else."

"How did you come to wed her then, my lord, if I may be so bold as to ask?"

"Her parents were in service to my house. Her father died on a raid in the Poros region. Her mother perished in childbirth shortly after. None of her other kin had the resources to care for her, and as my wife was recently dead, and I was not wanting her to be given to the sands, I wedded her. She was six years old then."

"'Given to the sands?'" Imrahil asked, not sure he was going to like what he heard.

But Khuzayam did not confirm his suspicions directly. "Ours is a harsh existence, my lord prince. Those who cannot care for themselves must have someone who can care for them. Our tribe, and others like it, take care of their own to the best of their ability. By wedding her, I gave her status, and a claim upon a portion of my wealth. When I pass, she will be a young widow with a good portion, and should easily find a husband. I have a ten-year-old grandson who might serve."

"It is good of you to take such care of her."

The Haradrim made one of his expressive shrugs. "Her people were my people. It was my obligation as their lord."

"But it would seem to me that you did not have to marry her to carry out your obligation."

"That is true. But this way, she is a more desirable wife." Khuzayam smiled. "And in any event, it is no hardship. She is a cheerful little thing, and has brightened my last years considerably."

The 'cheerful little thing' returned at that moment with a tray that almost spanned the full width of her arms, filled with sweetmeats and fruit. Imrahil leapt to his feet and relieved her of it., setting it upon the table.

"Thank you, my lord," she said, and there was a smile in her eyes even if Imrahil could not see her face. Once free of her burden, she moved over to Khuzayam and settled herself beside him, rather like the hound.

"My husband, might I not stay for a bit?" she inquired artlessly. Khuzayam frowned, but there was no real ire in it.

"We are playing a game here, sand swift. And you should have been abed long ago."

"But I have never seen an outlander! And I should like to hear a story of his people."

"He is my guest, not an entertainer summoned here for your pleasure," her husband chided her, and the little veiled head drooped.

"I do not mind telling the young lady a story," Imrahil declared in Haradric with a smile. A'isha looked up hopefully, her eyes twinkling with anticipation. "What sort of tale would you like to hear, my lady?"

"Something about the Sea, since I know little of it," came her prompt response, and Imrahil spent some moments turning over tales in his mind to find something appropriate. He did not think that his recent exploit of capturing one of her country's larger vessels would be well received, but it did not take long for something else to occur to him. Sometimes, the most obvious solution to a problem was also the best one.

"Have you ever heard the story of Amroth and Nimrodel?" he asked. A vigorous shake of the head answered him. "It is a tale about the Elf who gave my city its name, Amroth of Lorien, and his love, the lady Nimrodel."

"I should very much like to hear it, my lord," her soft voice requested earnestly. So, after a moment to collect his thoughts, Imrahil began the tale, couching it in the flowery language common to the minstrels of his father's court. A'isha listened raptly as he described the trials of the two lovers, and her large dark eyes grew moist when Imrahil finally recounted Amroth's leap into the Sea.

"'Tis very sad," she said at last, when he had done with the tale. "Are all stories about the Sea so sad?"

"Most of them," the Prince admitted. "Though at least with this one, you can make a happy ending for yourself if you like. It is not known what happened to Amroth with any certainty. He and his lady may even now be living happily together in the Elven lands." A sudden impulse caused him to reach up to his ear, remove the beautiful, pear-shaped pearl earring that had resided there for a number of years, and offer it to A'isha. "Would my lady accept a token to remind her of the Sea, since she lives so far from it?"

The young girl looked up at her husband, who, expressionless, nodded assent. Only then did her hand reach out to cup the pearl. A finger stroked its lustrous surface as she gazed upon it in awe.

"'Tis very beautiful," she murmured. Khuzayam cleared his throat meaningfully, and she started, looked up, then cast her eyes down in embarrassment.

"I thank you, my lord, for the lovely gift."

"My lady is most welcome."

"Bedtime, A'isha," the desert lord declared, and she nodded, rose, made a quick bob in Imrahil's direction, and departed, still examining the pearl with obvious pleasure.

"You are a generous man, my lord prince," Khuzayam commented when she had gone. "And a good storyteller." 

Imrahil suddenly realized that he might have made a mistake. _I hope he does not think that I seek to buy his favor by endeavoring to please his wife! Or that I have not violated custom in some way by giving her the jewel... _

But if such was the case, the Haradrim made no sign of it. "Shall we continue our game?" he suggested mildly, selecting a piece of fruit from the tray, and beginning to eat. Imrahil, whose move it was, took a moment to study the board, and focus his thoughts upon the game once more.

They played until the midnight bell rang, when Khuzayam finally had the victory. Imrahil had made him fight for it, postponing the inevitable for as long as he could once he realized that he had made a fatal error, and the victory belonged to the Haradrim. Tipping his king over with a rueful smile, he said, "A good game, my lord."

The desert lord nodded agreement. "A good game indeed. You knew I had you sometime ago. Why did you not concede?"

"I do not like to lose," the Prince admitted with a rueful smile. "And I was determined to make your victory as costly as possible."

"Indeed." Khuzayam rang his bell, and a servant appeared, a different one from the previous one. Whispered commands were issued, as before, and another servant came in with a fresh pot of bean-tea. Khuzayam stretched, and Imrahil followed suit.

Two other servants the Prince had not seen before came in bearing a large piece of canvas, that, judging from its stiffness had been waxed or sealed in some manner, and spread it over the carpet near the table. Intrigued and curious as to what it might be for, Imrahil watched them. When they had departed once more, Khuzayam looked at him very directly.

"Before our arrival, the Ruling Council of Harad was split down the middle upon whether we should renew this treaty with Gondor, or go to war now. There was much debate in the weeks preceding these talks, and much of that debate was angry and full of rancor. The power upon each side was nicely balanced, and things were at an impasse." He picked up his cup, sipped it, and set it down again.

"In the end, the Lord of Umbar came up with a plan to leave things in the hands of the Powers themselves. A test was devised. Should your folk be able to interpret what was required, then we would negotiate a new treaty. Should you fail and withdraw, then we could go to war. All upon the Council agreed to this, and the nature of the test was decided. I was asked to attend the talks as the representative from Harad."

"It was not expected, I think, that you would be able to solve the riddle. And the Council certainly did not allow for you receiving help from our own side."

The outer door to Khuzayam's chambers opened suddenly. Two of the biggest guards Imrahil had ever seen entered, dragging a man between them. Their prisoner's hands were bound behind his back, and he was gagged. Stripped to the waist, his back showed signs of a recent whipping. They forced him forward onto the canvas and down upon his knees, whereupon one of them seized him by the hair at the back of his neck, and yanked his head up. It was Captain Faris.

Imrahil's stomach lurched queasily. One of Khuzayam's servants returned from the inner chamber, bearing a sword. He bowed to his lord, who indicated Imrahil with a wave of his hand. The sword, an ornately graven and bejeweled scimitar, was then given into the Prince's hand. The servant bowed once more, and departed.

"The Council is most wroth with this man," Khuzayam said conversationally. "As the Speaker for our people, it is my right to test you as your people's candidate. And I have decided upon the manner of the test. If Gondor wishes to treat with us, Prince Imrahil, you will kill this man for me."


	9. Chapter Nine

Appalled, Imrahil rose to his feet, a bit stiffly from sitting for so long, the scimitar gripped loosely in his hand.

"Lord Khuzayam, surely you cannot be serious! This man has done nothing to warrant death, at my hand or any other!"

Khuzayam looked upon Faris with pitiless calm. "Has he not? Do your folk not call it _treason_ when one of your own treats with the enemy?"

"Are we enemies, then? Was the treaty not still in effect when he came to me?" The Prince looked down at the captain. The guard released his head, but Faris did not turn to meet Imrahil's eyes, instead staring straight ahead while endeavoring to straighten up into a more dignified position. "He did not 'treat' with me in any event."

The desert lord's eyebrow arched with displeasure. "He did not come to you and tell you of the custom of the Speakers?"

"No, my lord! I do not believe he even knew of it. All he said was that your people would treat with mine if we were able to discern the meaning of the riddle, and that I should look for my answers in the deep desert. It was more of an encouragement than any real information."

"Ah, but when he offered you that encouragement, he violated the agreement between our two factions. The Powers were supposed to rule in this matter."

"Perhaps it was your Powers who inspired him to act, have you ever considered that?" Khuzayam did not deign to reply, and Imrahil pressed on. "Captain Faris is a good and honorable man, and did what he did out of a desire for peace between our nations."

"Then you should not be surprised that those among us who wish to go to war with Gondor would find his actions reprehensible. Slay him."

The Prince looked down upon the Captain, whose head was bowed now. The guard had pushed his head down and parted his hair and the back of his neck showed bare and brown and vulnerable.

"Let me take him from here, Lord Khuzayam, if your peoples' displeasure runs so high," Imrahil pleaded. "I will give him sanctuary among our folk." Faris' head snapped up at that, and Khuzayam frowned.

"You only damn him further with your favor, my lord prince, demonstrating that Gondor has indeed bought his loyalty! And his family in Harad will suffer dreadfully should you grant him asylum." The Haradrim could not speak for the gag in his mouth, but his fearful expression showed mute agreement with Lord Khuzayam's statement. Imrahil, looking down upon him, remembered Faris' honorable behavior in their previous dealings, and was sickened anew.

I should do this, for Gondor's sake. The Steward would expect me to. The question is, what would Father expect?

"'Tis but one man's life, Prince Imrahil, to buy peace between two nations," Khuzayam coaxed. "You cannot in conscience refuse."

"What sort of peace may be bought with an innocent man's blood?" Imrahil asked softly after a moment, stooping to set the scimitar upon the table. "I will not slay him." The desert lord's face already dark face seemed to grow darker still.

"Is that your final answer?"

"It is."

"Then I give you a good evening, my lord prince." There was no guest-gift, no other words of farewell, nor indeed any other speech at all. Lord Khuzayam sat silently sipping his bean tea while his servants showed Imrahil to the door and shut him outside with swift dispatch.

Out in the corridor, the rather shaken young Prince stared at the door in dismay while he contemplated his next unpleasant task. It was time to go to the Steward and tell him of his failure.

His father, Denethor, Hurin and Forlyn and other ranking members of the delegation were all waiting up for him in the parlor of the Steward's suite.

"You were there for a long time, Imrahil," Hurin said hopefully. "How did your time with Lord Khuzayam go?"

"Not that well," the Heir admitted reluctantly. "I failed the test." He then recounted the evening's events after the departure of the other two delegates.

"Let me see if I understand this correctly," Denethor said when Imrahil had finished. "The test for the position of Speaker turned out to be that you had to be willing to kill a Haradrim?"

"Yes, my lord Steward," Imrahil answered quietly.

"And although you are arguably one of the best killers of Haradrim in Gondor, you could not bring yourself to slay this particular _one_ for the sake of your country?"

"This was not a battle, my lord, it was an execution!" Imrahil protested. "The man had committed no crime that Gondor recognizes--he merely spoke to me, giving me the encouragement that I needed to solve the puzzle. If he had offended against his countrymen, then it was their place to try and sentence him."

"You knew him, and could not bring yourself to slay him because of that acquaintance," Denethor alleged coolly. "Has it not occurred to you that it might have been meant as a kindness as well as a test? Haradric methods of execution are far more creative and cruel than those we employ."

"That had crossed my mind," the Heir admitted, "but I hoped that I was wrong, that they would not kill him if I spared him."

"Sentimentality!" the Steward declared. "By refusing to kill a man who is probably condemned anyway, you have doomed many others to certain death should we go to war."

Imrahil, his face pale, was about to say something he was sure he would regret later when his father intervened.

"That will be _enough, _Denethor!" Adrahil snapped. "_I _am not comfortable with the idea of the Haradrim using my Heir as their headsman, and if Imrahil chose to extend the man mercy, futile though it was or no, then I am proud of him and will not count the cost! Furthermore, we are truly no closer to war now than before he made his attempt--you were ready to break off the peace talks on the morrow in any event." He paused to collect himself, took a deep breath and threw Imrahil a fond look. "All my son has done has been to try to solve the puzzle they set before us. He has done more than his part to keep these negotiations open. There is no use talking of should-have-dones and might-have-beens. The morning may bring new council, and I for one intend to retire that I might be ready to receive it when it comes." He rose to his feet, and everyone at the table rose with him, bowing as he exited the room, his son at his side.

"I am sorry that I failed you, Father," Imrahil said quietly as the two of them walked down the corridor, Andrahar silent beside them. "And Gondor as well."

"You acted according to your conscience and did the very best you could, Imri. That is never a failure."

"Perhaps Denethor is right--it was foolish of me to cause a war by sparing Captain Faris. Spilling one man's blood must surely be preferable to the oceans of blood spilled in a war."

Adrahil shook his head. "What sort of lasting peace could be bought with the life of an innocent man, my son?" he asked, unknowingly echoing Imrahil's earlier thought. "The Haradrim cannot have everything their own way--we have bent over backwards to play their game. If they truly wish to avoid conflict with us, then they must bend a bit as well. And in any event, Denethor aside, are you certain that by refusing to slay the man you failed the test?"

"I think that I must have, Father," Imrahil replied, depressed. "Lord Khuzayam dismissed me as soon as I had done so. But I could not do that to Faris--he is a good man! If I could have taken him out of there, I would have done so."

Adrahil chuckled. "I would not have disputed you, had you done so--you have been proven to have rare taste in Haradrim." He looked over at Andrahar. "And speaking of our southern neighbors…Andra, if the negotiations do in fact end tomorrow, I fear that there might be an attempt to do the Steward some mischief when he departs for Minas Tirith."

The Swan Knight considered this for a moment. "It is possible. T'would be difficult to do, but well worth doing, were we to actually declare war." He looked up at Adrahil. "What is your will, my liege?"

"If the negotiations close early, I want you to split our escort. Imrahil will captain the half that returns to Dol Amroth with me, while you will join the Steward's escort with the other half and see that Denethor, my daughter and grandsons return home safely. Will you do this for me?"

"Of course, my lord. I will start making arrangements immediately." With a respectful nod, he left them.

"That was cruel, Father, inflicting my dear brother Denethor upon my dear brother Andrahar," Imrahil remarked with a ghost of a smile. "And vice versa. Denethor will undoubtedly think Andrahar is in collusion with the Haradrim. Why do I not go instead?"

Adrahil shook his head. "Because then the market basket would be entirely too full, Imri. Too tempting, with both my Heir and the Steward in it. And besides, if war does break out, you will be needed at Dol Amroth, not the whole breadth of the kingdom away from home. And Andra may more safely travel that breadth back to us than you can."

Imrahil nodded, seeing the sense of his father's proposal. They arrived at the door to his father's suite, greeted the two Swan Knights standing guard there, and entered the parlor, only to find Nimrien waiting for them, reading a book, which she hurriedly set down upon their arrival.

"What happened at the dinner, my lords?" she inquired swiftly, curiosity and concern writ upon her face. Adrahil smiled fondly.

"I shall let Imrahil tell you, my dear, for I am weary and have an early day before me tomorrow." He kissed her brow before departing for his bedchamber, leaving the two younger people alone.

"Imri?" she inquired, as the Heir searched and found the brandy on the side table and poured himself a glass. He offered her one as well, but she declined with a shake of the head.

"I am so full of bean-tea that I shall never get to sleep," he complained, dropping into one of the more comfortable chairs. "And I have an early day before me as well. It would not do for me to show up late for my own humiliation and defeat."

"What 'humiliation and defeat'? Did you not pass this test of Lord Khuzayam's?"

"No, I did not." For the second time that evening, he recounted the events of his dinner with the desert lord as he sipped his brandy. Nimrien, who had seated herself in the chair closest to him, listened intently with a slight frown upon her face. When he had done, she reached out and laid a sympathetic hand upon his arm.

"Of course you could not have killed that poor man! I am very glad that you did not."

"Even if it means that we go to war with Harad? And I did not even truly save Faris by my refusal--I suspect that Denethor is right about that. They will execute him themselves, and in a manner much more cruel than he would have suffered at my hands." Imrahil leaned forward, elbows on knees, and swirled the brandy in his glass, regarding it morosely. "I can just see the chroniclers now--'In the year 2986, Harad and Gondor met to renew the long-standing treaty between the two nations. But thanks to the incompetent bumbling of one of their junior diplomats, Imrahil, Heir to Dol Amroth, the negotiations fell through and war was declared. Thus were begun decades of ruinous conflict, which are known as Imrahil's War.'"

Nimrien snorted. He looked up, and found her giving him an aggravated glare. "Are you quite done with feeling sorry for yourself?" she inquired tartly. "Things are not always about _you_, Imri, difficult as you might find that to believe. The chroniclers could just as easily write something like this: 'In the year 2986, Harad and Gondor met to renew the long-standing treaty between the two nations. But despite the best efforts of Gondor's diplomats, the Haradrim were intractable and unreasonable in their demands, and the negotiations fell through.'"

Imrahil's mouth quirked slightly, and he took a long, appreciative draught of his drink. "You make a valid point, my lady. I apologize for my rather self-centered view of things."

"There is no reason to berate yourself so. There was no bungling--you simply could not in conscience kill an innocent man. And I am glad that you did not--if you had, I am not certain I would have felt comfortable around you ever again."

"Well! There's a reason to be glad I failed, then!" Nimrien gave him a flat look at that rather strained attempt at levity, and under her regard he grew pensive once more.

"I would have really liked to have succeeded at this, my lady," he said quietly. "Mostly because of Father, but I will admit that the Steward was a powerful motivation as well. He reckons me a hothead warrior and naught else."

"To have the Lord Denethor continually underestimate you is not necessarily a bad thing, Imri. It could be turned to your advantage. Better that than that he think you more formidable than you really are."

"Andrahar says that Denethor is frightened by me. Of what I can become."

"Andrahar is wiser than most people give him credit for, though I will debate the 'frightened' part. I would say rather that the Steward is wary," Nimrien said thoughtfully. She rose from her chair and moved to stand behind and a little to one side of Imrahil's. Then, to his very great surprise, she reached out and began rubbing his shoulders firmly.

"You are all in knots. The bean-tea won't be the only thing keeping you awake." The Prince sighed in pleasure under her ministrations and dropped his head, whereupon she began rubbing the back of his neck as well. A brief image of Faris' bared neck flashed into his mind, and he stiffened. "What is the matter, Imri?" the archivist asked.

"Nothing," he lied, and forced himself to relax once more. Eventually, her hands grew weary and she stopped, but by that time he was much less tense. Straightening, he downed the last of the brandy, then stood and stretched.

"Thank you, Nimrien, for all of your help with this, and for listening just now. I should not have gotten anywhere near so far without you."

"It was my pleasure and duty to do so, Imri." Her eyes were clouded with worry as she looked up at him. He bent his head to kiss her brow, his hand stroking her cheek softly, and she sighed, closing her eyes and leaning into the touch. Tempted for a moment to gather her up and kiss her properly, he refrained and let his hand fall instead.

"Good night, my lady."

A sweet smile answered him. "Good night, my lord prince." The two of them parted company and retired to their respective chambers.

And despite the bean-tea and the stresses of the day, or perhaps because of Nimrien's gentle hands, Imrahil was asleep but moments after his head touched the pillow.

He woke to the sound of water filling a tub, and cracked a bleary eye open. One of the half-dozen esquires who had accompanied the Knights was bustling about the room, laying out clothing and buffing the Prince's boots.

"Valar, Orenal, what time is it?" Imrahil complained querulously. He looked towards the window and saw that it was light outside. "Could you not let me rest a bit longer?" Andrahar was seated at the table there, which had breakfast laid upon it, leaning back in his chair and looking entirely too perky as he devoured a scone with incisive bites.

"No, my lord, he could not," Andrahar answered for the esquire, who seemed a bit stricken. "I let you sleep as long as I could, but you will be late if you dally much longer. Don't mind him, Orenal, you know that he's impossible first thing in the morning." The esquire nodded and continued about his business. Imrahil eventually found his way into the tub, got his hair washed and the rest of him scrubbed, and then shaved and dressed, finally moving to the breakfast table, where he picked moodily at his breakfast. Orenal then departed.

"Eat, Imri," Andrahar prodded. "'Tis always best to face disaster upon a full stomach." Said stomach somewhat roiled from the bean-tea, brandy and exotic food of the night before, Imrahil tried to do as he was told and found that, once he had started, he was in fact rather hungry and that the food settled things quite well..

"Have you any news?" the young Prince inquired between bites. The Haradrim shook his head.

"Nothing, either about the treaty or the fate of the good captain. I assume that we will convene this morning and that Denethor will call things off." Imrahil winced, and Andrahar leaned across the table to grasp his forearm.

"You did what you could, more than anyone else. This is not your fault." He shrugged fatalistically. "So it begins rather earlier than we thought it would. We always knew the day would come. Some time is all that has been truly lost here." Smiling suddenly in a most evil fashion, he added, "Even this can be turned to some advantage, my lord prince."

"In what way?" the Heir asked, baffled.

Andrahar leaned back in his chair once more, waving a hand airily. He was not a particularly adept mimic as a rule, but his voice took on a cadence suggestive of Imrahil's for a moment. "My lady, I am about to go into battle with our enemies, risking my life on Gondor's behalf. I could be maimed for life, or even killed! Can you not see it in your heart to give me something to remember as I ride forth to hazard all?"

Imrahil groaned. "Oh, for Valar's sake, Andra! As if I would use such a disastrous event to advance my suit!"

"If we go to war, you had better advance your suit, and quickly, Imri! Getting an heir or two on the ground becomes even more imperative."

"_Must_ you refer to me as if I were a stud horse?" Disgruntled, the Prince applied himself to his breakfast once more. After several more bites, he looked up to find Andrahar leering suggestively at him and waggling his heavy eyebrows in the most ridiculous manner possible.

The scone was already well-dressed with butter and jam, but it flew true nonetheless, and hit the captain squarely between the eyes.

Upon finishing breakfast, and after Andrahar had washed up, the two friends eventually found themselves in the milling crowd before the negotiation chamber doors. Adrahil greeted them cordially, but Imrahil did not miss the looks of disappointment and anger directed at him by other members of Denethor's entourage. As for the Steward himself, his face was expressionless, though he did favor the Heir to Dol Amroth with one long stare before turning away. Imrahil moved to his father's side, and bent his head over his notes. A quick look around had shown him that Captain Faris was not there, and his heart was heavy.

Lord Khuzayam was not present when they arrived, but he and his two assistants strode up shortly afterwards, their robes billowing in the wind of their brisk passage. The Haradrim lords, Asadel foremost, gathered about him immediately upon his arrival and a hubbub arose. But the desert lord ignored those about him, looking through the throng to where Imrahil stood.

"I call upon the Speaker for Gondor to stand forth!" he declared commandingly. "Prince Imrahil, are you ready to treat on behalf of your people?"

Silence fell, and all eyes from both delegations turned towards Imrahil, who stood there, stunned.

I thought that I had failed! He said that I would have to slay Faris in order to be named Speaker! Was it some sort of trick? His gloomy mood of the moment before began to lighten a bit.

Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth was a tall, spare man, and his elbows were sharp. He used one of them then, swiftly and to good effect upon his son's ribs. Imrahil shook himself and looked back at Khuzayam.

"The Speaker of Gondor stands ready, my lord." He was proud that his voice was reasonably steady. Looking about quickly, he could see nothing but approval amongst his fellows now. Hurin was mouthing "Well done!" silently at him, while Denethor seemed to be pondering some new and interesting idea.

Khuzayam smiled, and gestured towards the doors. "Shall we then, my lord?" Imrahil inclined his head, accepted the copy of the treaty that his father thrust into his arms, and started forward. All gave way before him, even the Steward, then fell in close behind his back. The Haradrim were doing the same behind Khuzayam. But the morning's surprises were not yet done.

The doors were opened, and the desert lord and coastal prince entered the chamber. But when Denethor and the other Gondorian delegates started to follow, they were halted on the threshold by Lord Asadel, who had the expression of someone who had just swallowed something extremely distasteful.

"I am sorry, my lord Steward," he said and there actually was genuine regret in his voice, "but you agreed to abide by our customs in this manner when you sent your candidates for Speaker to us. And among the Fahrikhi, Lord Khuzayam's folk, one Speaker speaks for all."

Denethor was nothing if not an extremely intelligent man, and it took him but a moment to grasp exactly what this meant.

"Do you mean to tell me that _Imrahil_ must negotiate for us _alone_?" Asadel nodded.

"As we must allow Lord Khuzayam to be our sole negotiator, and trust in his abilities." Murmuring broke out among the Gondorian embassage. The Haradrim were quieter, but that was perhaps because they had known that this was coming.

Imrahil, who had paused just within the room to see what was going on, heard Asadel's explanation and the color drained out of his face. He had thought that his place of prominence as Speaker would be purely ceremonial, that having gotten his foot in the door, as it were, the actual negotiating would be performed by the professionals. Turning to meet his brother-in-law's eyes, he found that, for the first time since he'd met the Steward, they were actually in complete accord. The same look of appalled horror that was on his face was mirrored on Denethor's.

"Is there no other choice?" the Steward asked.

"You may withdraw from the negotiations, of course," Asadel said. "We could have done so as well, but have chosen to trust in our Speaker."

Denethor was silent for a moment considering. Imrahil could almost follow his train of thought as he pondered which would be worse for Gondor--war with Harad, or having to live with the conditions of a treaty negotiated by Imrahil of Dol Amroth. It looked to be a close contest.

In the end peace, however conditional, won out. "We will trust in our Speaker as well," the Steward declared smoothly, while his eyes skewered Imrahil with unspoken promises of horrific punishment should he fail.

The Prince swallowed, hard. A light touch brushed his arm, and Khuzayam's voice sounded close at hand.

"Come, my lord prince. Let us see if an old hawk from the desert and a young swan from the sea can craft a peace that will hold." He gestured towards the long table, and Imrahil only had a moment to throw a beseeching look at his father, who nodded once, firmly, before the doors closed behind them.


	10. Chapter Ten

The chamber doors were heavy, and they made an ominous, muffled boom as they closed behind the two men. Imrahil, his arms full of treaty and notes, looked at Khuzayam, who was similarly burdened, having acquired the necessary documents from one of his assistants. The two men looked at the long, narrow table, ill-suited to their purpose now that they were the only diplomats in the room.

"Shall we meet in the middle?" the desert lord suggested, freeing an arm to make a sweeping gesture towards the table. He started down the left side.

"Indeed, my lord. An excellent suggestion," Imrahil said, then cursed himself silently, as he progressed down the right. He had seen the prickly precursors to the negotiation, where the diplomats from both sides had argued numbers and precedence and placement within the hall, and from what his father had told him, those preparations were almost as important as the actual negotiations themselves, each side trying to establish that they operated from a position of strength before the negotiations started. He was sure that the Steward would have disapproved of his ready agreement with Lord Khuzayam, and that the Haradrim lord probably thought him a soft touch. A disturbing thought occurred to him then.

He told me that I would have to kill Faris to become Speaker. But the opposite proved to be true. If I were a negotiator, and had the chance to choose my opponent's negotiator, I would endeavor to select the weakest person I could find! Someone sentimental and merciful, who could be overwhelmed. I am in trouble here!

Unaware of Imrahil's inner musings, Lord Khuzayam selected a seat halfway down the table, and settled himself, spreading his papers out before him. The young Prince followed suit.

"Shall we begin at the beginning? The first articles are the trade provisions. I will read them aloud so that we may both have our memories refreshed," the desert lord stated authoritatively. Heart sinking, Imrahil listened without protest as Khuzayam read the pertinent passages.

"Have you any comments to make?' he inquired when he had done. The Heir shook his head. "Then here is what I propose." The Haradrim proposal contained a substantial rollback of tariffs and considerable relaxation of inspection requirements. Since a lessening of Gondor's tax burden was also in Imrahil's interest, and that of the merchant houses of Dol Amroth, he could not find it in his heart to disagree with that clause, though he suspected that a career diplomat probably would have done so out of principal. But having spent a fair bit of time with tax and custom officials in the last months, he also knew that he could not let pass the inspection protocols that Khuzayam proposed.

Hoping his voice would hold steady, his stomach churning, he said, "The tariff roll-back seems reasonable, my lord, and I believe that my people would agree to that. But you cannot seriously think that we will let Haradrim vessels into Pelargrir or Dol Amroth with only the cursory inspection that you suggest here."

The desert-lord's grizzled eyebrow lifted. "I do indeed, Prince Imrahil. From whence comes this unfriendly attitude of yours?"

"From experience, sir, and prudence. I know all too well the Corsair love of subterfuge."

"These are legitimate merchant vessels we speak of here, not Corsair raiders. Our people have never sanctioned the Corsair raids upon Gondor. Even one so relatively unschooled in diplomatic matters as yourself should realize that."

My suspicions are confirmed! He chose me because he thought he would be able to walk over me, Imrahil thought bleakly, but resolved to persevere in spite of the demoralizing knowledge. "That is as may be, my lord. But with all due respect, by your own admission you have spent little time in Umbar, and even less, I suspect, upon the sea. I, on the other hand, have spent much of the last eight years at sea, pursuing the Corsairs. I know how they think and plan, and I can tell you that the inspection protocols you propose will be an open invitation for them to sail into our ports under the guise of legitimate merchants. Not to mention the encouragement it would give the smuggling trade. I cannot permit that."

"We appear to be at an impasse here. Perhaps I was mistaken in my choice of Speaker."

Imrahil lifted his chin. "No, my lord, we are not at any sort of impasse. My proposal is that the inspection protocols remain the same, not that they are increased in any way. And I have agreed to the reduction in the tariffs, although I do not believe that will make Lord Denethor very happy with me. But you _were_ mistaken in your choice of Speaker if, by choosing me, you thought that you would be able to have things all your own way."

"I will end these negotiations if I feel it necessary, Prince Imrahil," Khuzayam warned.

"As will I," the prince declared in return, and realized suddenly that he meant it. His grey eyes narrowed, sought Khuzayam's and held them. _I am not the carpet before your tent that you use to wipe your feet upon, _he thought grimly. The desert lord seemed almost to discern his thought; Khuzayam's eyes, darker even than Andrahar's, widened for a moment. Then he chuckled ruefully.

"There are songs among my people about the Black Swan of Dol Amroth, did you know that, my lord prince? I am told that they paint you quite the terrible opponent. I had not listened to them before, and now I think that perhaps I should have taken the time to do so." He looked down, pulled a piece of parchment towards him, and began to write. This took some time and when he had done, he pushed it across the table towards Imrahil. "There. The amended trade provisions, as per our agreement. Review it, please, and make sure that I have scribed the details correctly. You may write the next section, which concerns troop deployments, if I remember correctly. Please read the corresponding section in our current treaty aloud for me, if you would be so kind."

Imrahil did so, and negotiations upon that point and the others then began in earnest, continuing throughout the day and into the early evening. Somewhat more confident once he had survived his first confrontation with Khuzayam, the prince was able to consider the treaty objectively, and to his surprise, had absorbed much more of it than he realized, as he had sat bored beside his father in council. His experience as a commander upon land and sea served him well in the military sections, and the time he had spent the previous winter involved in the more mundane business of his principality proved to be invaluable in the civilian parts.

Diplomacy, he decided in the end, was a game not unlike chess, in that there were times to press forward and times to retreat, and times to hold one's ground. Moderately good at chess, he was, he discovered, better at this--he had a quick wit, a good memory for detail, the ability to read an opponent and the eloquence to be very persuasive when he chose to be. Most importantly, it seemed he possessed an inborn knack for knowing the correct action at any given time, and while Khuzayam made him fight for every concession, as the hours wore on, the desert lord began to treat him as an opponent worthy of respect. Noting that, Imrahil exulted within, but kept a firm rein upon his emotions without; determined as never before in his life that he would not fail in this, that he would work a fair peace for both nations.

So it was, in that sunlit room, which grew warmer as the day progressed, and under the piercing gaze of the desert lord, that Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth stumbled upon his last and greatest gift, at almost thirty-one years of age. Not the ability to master wind and wave in a ship, nor to command men in war upon land or sea, but rather to look across a table at a potential friend or enemy and empathize enough with them to build consensus without ever forgetting the best interests of his own people. Finally a diplomat as well as a warrior, on that day and in that room he came at last into his own, and was, in truth, a prince.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

In the hall outside the chamber, and the adjoining chambers, the other members of the two embassies waited. From time to time a request would be sent out for further information of various sorts--the tariff figures for Umbar and Pelargir for the previous ten years, a more detailed map of the Harondor region, information upon water supplies in the northern desert. Denethor, seeing all of this, remarked that it looked as if the young prince were actually attempting to negotiate, whereupon Adrahil, who was sitting with his daughter and foster-daughter, snorted.

"Of course he is, and no 'attempt' about it!"

Boromir, who was seated at Finduilas' feet patiently attempting to set his carved wooden soldiers out in some sort of order in spite of Faramir's well-intentioned 'help', looked up at his mother.

"Negotiate means Uncle is trying to keep us from going to war, doesn't it?"

"That is right, Boromir. You are a clever boy to remember that."

"Well, I hope he doesn't do it. I want to fight!"

"Which only proves that you are not such a clever boy," Andrahar remarked, from where he leaned against the wall near Adrahil, arms crossed. "The wise man pursues peace with all his heart, and only when all has failed does he then go to war--also with his whole heart. No soldier wishes to spill his blood to end a quarrel that could have been resolved with well-placed words."

Boromir, momentarily daunted, looked down at his lap, then over at his brother. Hurriedly extricating one of his mounted knights from Faramir's mouth, he looked up at his mother imploringly.

"Mother, I'm _bored_! Can't Captain Andrahar teach me some knife-fighting now?"

"That depends upon Captain Andrahar, dear. I was about to put Faramir down for his nap--wouldn't you like to come and lie down for a bit as well?"

"I am not a _baby_, Mother!" He was most indignant.

"Sadly, I fear that I am on duty, and must remain here until sunset, when Peloren relieves me," Andrahar said quickly, before Boromir could question him about his availability. "I would suggest that you either accompany your mother, or remain here and cultivate patience. With your brother gone, you should be able to explore your military strategies without interruption."

Boromir thought about that for a moment, and decided to stay. He spent the rest of the afternoon fighting battles upon the figured carpet, taking castles made of cups and inkwells. His grandfather ended up upon the floor with him, playing the opposition, while chiefs of staff Andrahar and Denethor, and divers others of the diplomatic party, offered military counsel. As wars went, it was a most satisfactory one; endless victories, no true casualties and no blood spilt--unless one counted the small inkblot on the carpet from an inkwell accidentally overturned in the heat of the fray. More than one of the adults present hoped that it would be the only war that resulted from the negotiations.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-

Anor had sunk into the West, and only a dim glow on the horizon showed the path of her passing. Within the negotiation chamber, Imrahil finished scribing the second-to-last provision, and pushed it back across the table for Khuzayam's approval. He had stripped to his shirtsleeves in the unseasonable heat of the day, not caring if it showed a weakness on his part, and the desert lord had unbent enough to shed a couple of his outer robes as well.

Khuzayam read, and nodded. "That looks good to me. We have but to put in the last passage, then have it copied so that we may sign it. A job well done, my lord prince."

"My compliments to you as well, Lord Khuzayam." Leaning back in his chair, Imrahil sighed and sipped from the glass of cider that he had asked for instead of wine or liquor, while Khuzayam reached for a date from the plate of food they'd sent for a couple of hours previously. "Now that we have finished with this, I was wondering if you would answer a couple of questions for me."

"What sort of questions?" the desert lord asked, slight wariness in his tone.

"The test for the Speaker. What was all that about? I was certain that I had failed, and it turned out not to be the case. And whatever became of Captain Faris? I do not wish to cause you trouble with your people, but I would very much like to know."

Khuzayam smiled, and laughed softly. "Ah, I wondered when we would come to that! I will warn you, you will not like what it is I have to tell you."

"Nonetheless, I should like to know, my lord." Khuzayam took a few moments to chew and swallow his date, daintily placing the pit in a small bowl provided for that purpose.

"Very well then," he said at last. "The first thing that you should understand is that my people, like the other desert tribes, are poor compared to other parts of Harad, and have little influence in Council. We are regarded as a source of soldiers, and little else, but our soldiers are seldom commanded by one of their own; rather, the coastal lords decide how their blood is to be spent. This has been going on for generations, and it has taken its toll upon us. Therefore, it has come to pass that there are those among the elders of the desert tribes who wish to postpone the war with Gondor for as long as possible, that we might have time to recover somewhat from the unceasing demands that our country's conflicts have placed upon us. Too many of our young men go off to war at eighteen or sixteen or even fourteen, never to return. My own grandson is ten, and I should like to see him live to manhood, and sire sons of his own. So it is that, even though we are regarded as the fiercest warriors in Harad, we are at present very invested in preserving the peace."

"This is something, however, that we have endeavored to keep hidden, and it has not been all that hard to do--the other tribes hold us in contempt, calling us 'sand-rats' and worse, and think us simple-minded barbarians. Those most arrogant, war-minded houses, Bakshir and Khambuluk and the like, wished to hurry the war and simply assumed that we were of a similar opinion, that our young men would desire the gold and glory the war would bring. We did nothing to persuade them otherwise, but in secret we had sent emissaries to the Lord of Umbar, who also desired peace, that we might cooperate in achieving our mutual desire." He paused to pour himself a cup of the bean-tea that had been brought with the food, and cradled it in his hands when he was done.

"As I explained to you before, the Council was divided evenly down the middle, and the Lord of Umbar came up with the plan to leave the matter to the Powers themselves. And it was decided that the customs of the Fahrikhi should be the ones used, for the war faction believed that we would do everything in our power to prevent the negotiations from taking place. Little did they know that, even while protesting our inclusion in the negotiations most loudly, the Lord of Umbar was laughing on the inside!"

"So there was no way I would have failed the test?" Imrahil asked, after a moment's thought. Khuzayam shook his head.

"Had I had my wish, no way at all. I was determined that the negotiations would take place, that we would make peace. You or some other would have been the Speaker, and I was not overmuch concerned about which one it would be. I am a good negotiator, and knew that I could hold my own against any of you. But I was not the sole voice in this matter--the war faction also had a say in how things were to be done. It fell to me to create a test that the war faction would agree to, and to declare in advance which result meant war and which peace, or they would not have agreed to abide by the results. So there was indeed a genuine test, and indeed you could have failed. Now, had we been at home, and had I truly been selecting you as the Speaker for a neighboring tribe, you would have passed the test I often use--Siyesha approved of you; therefore, so did I."

"You let your…._dog _select the Speaker? Do all of your folk do thusly?" The desert lord shook his head.

"The choice of test is always the visiting Speaker's, and it varies from person to person, and from time to time. But I have used my dogs upon more than one occasion, and it has always worked well for me."

Imrahil set his cider on the table, folded his hands and tried to absorb this rather humiliating information.

"Was there any reason in particular you chose me over the others?" he asked.

"There was, and that had something to do with your other question. Were you aware that Captain Faris is the Lord of Umbar's cousin?"

"No. We did not speak of such things. I knew that he was well-connected, that is all."

"He had been ordered by his cousin to do what he could to bring about a renewal of the treaty, at any cost. When he learned that you had been included in the negotiating party, he decided to give things a little shove in the direction we desired by encouraging you. He knew that the war faction would not suffer such interference, and that he might pay dearly for his daring, but he did it anyway. A brave man, Captain Faris." The desert lord took another sip of bean-tea. Not for the first time, Imrahil wondered where he was putting it all, as he had made but one visit to the garderobe the entire day.

"And his interference paid off. You discovered the custom, and your people named their candidates. At that point, I had a couple of things I wished to accomplish--I wanted the treaty renewed, and I wished to spare Faris' life, if that were possible. The captain's finer qualities aside, having the Lord of Umbar owe me a debt was a situation that could only benefit my people." Khuzayam set his cup down and stretched, with an audible creaking of bones.

"Cushions are ever so much more comfortable," he complained, a touch of irritation in his voice. "I shall never become accustomed to chairs…Where was I? Oh yes--the war faction was calling for Faris' execution for treason, and they wished me to declare what the test for Speaker would be. Asadel spoke to me in secret of your previous meeting with Faris, a meeting which Faris had dutifully reported to his cousin, who had relayed the information in turn to his good right-hand man Asadel. The war faction was unaware of your friendship with Faris. So I thought about it and the idea came to me that we should leave Faris' fate in the hands of the Powers, even as we had done the negotiations. I told them that we should tell the Speaker candidate that he would have to slay Faris in order to become Speaker, and that if he did so, and committed that warlike act, then he would have failed the test, and the war faction would have all that they desired; war with Gondor, and Faris dead. But that in the unlikely event the Speaker candidate should spare Faris, then this would be a clear sign that the Powers wished us to make peace--Faris would be free to go, and I would negotiate a treaty in good faith. The war faction agreed to this plan, liking it very well. They could not imagine a Gondorrim giving up the opportunity to kill one of us."

Imrahil's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "But if it seemed so unlikely that the Speaker would refuse to slay Faris, then why did the peace faction agree to the plan?"

"Because Asadel browbeat them into it. He is the Lord of Umbar's chief councilor, so words from his lips are as the Lord's words. He could hardly give them the information that we possessed, but he pointed out that the person who spared Faris' life would be a weak-willed individual, and that by forcing him to negotiate the treaty alone, we would be able to obtain all sorts of concession from the Gondorrim. A small chance of actually getting a treaty, but a great chance that that treaty would be very favorable to us. Needless to say, at that point your selection as Speaker was inevitable."

"Because you were counting upon me to spare Faris, and you thought that you could have your way at the negotiating table as well when I did?"

"Exactly!" Seeing the prince's disgruntled expression, Khuzayam chuckled. "I told you that you would not like what I had to say."

"So you did. And it would seem that things have fallen out just as you had planned." A thought occurred to Imrahil suddenly. "Wait--does my sparing Faris mean--"

"--that he has been freed and reinstated? Yes, it does. He is safely back upon his ship now."

Imrahil sighed with relief. "That is well, then. I am glad that I accomplished that much."

"You've accomplished a little more than that, my lord prince!" Khuzayam exclaimed with a bit of a grimace. "You see, I did make one miscalculation, and everything did not fall out quite as I had planned." The prince looked at him curiously. "I come from a hard land and a hard land makes hard men, or so my people say. My error was in assuming that a soft land would breed soft men. You are reputed to be a man valorous in battle, but you have no reputation in the council chamber. I thought that I would have my way with you, and I was wrong." He paused for a moment, then met Imrahil's eyes squarely, his expression earnest and open as the prince had never seen it before. "It is a good treaty, Prince Imrahil, good for _both_ of our nations."

Color rising in his cheeks, Imrahil looked down at the table for a moment, savoring the accolade. "If it is so good, then we had best be finishing it. Do you wish to write in the last clause, or shall I? It is your turn."

"I will do it." Khuzayam took up his pen and began to scribe in the final clause from the old treaty, the one short sentence that dictated the new treaty's duration--_The provisions described above will remain in effect for five years…" _with space afterwards to name the specific dates. But he had scarcely begun to write when the prince leaned across the table and laid a hand upon his arm, halting him.

"What is it?" Khuzayam asked.

"Do we sign this when it is done, the two of us? Or must Lord Asadel and Lord Denethor approve it?"

"It was ours to craft, and ours to sign, for our respective governments. Asadel knows this, and will have informed Denethor by now."

And I can just imagine how well **that** news will have been received! thought Imrahil, but he was grinning like a madman anyway, for the idea that had just occurred to him was so right, so _perfect_ that he could not resist.

"My lord prince?" Khuzayam inquired cautiously, looking as if he were worried the stresses of the day had overthrown Imrahil's reason.

The Heir to Dol Amroth replied with a question of his own. "How long," he asked softly, "for a young desert lord to grow to manhood and make sons of his own?" His finger pointed to one word in the last clause of the old treaty. Khuzayam looked at that finger, and the word, then up at Imrahil, and a similar grin lit up his old, seamed countenance.

"How long for a captain home from the sea to woo a difficult woman and make some sons as well?" He wrote a number in the margin of the old treaty and looked up at Imrahil, who nodded, then the desert lord completed the clause in the new treaty.

When he had finished, the two men rose as one, and walked to the doors together. Cracking them open, they both looked out and called in a single voice, "SCRIBE!"

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An hour later, two fair copies had been produced and signed and sealed by the two men, who then exited the chamber to give them to their respective governments. The Steward of Gondor took his treaty with a firm force that could not precisely be called a snatch, but was close to it.

"Let me see what you have wrought, Prince Imrahil." Imrahil surrendered it and walked away without a backward glance to his father, who embraced him.

"How did it go, my son?"

"Well enough, I think, Father, though you know that I have little experience in this sort of thing. I am sure that the Steward will inform me of any shortcomings in the document."

"Perhaps there will not be so many as you think," Adrahil said comfortingly. Andrahar strolled over. He was supposed to be off-shift, but had lingered, curious about the outcome of things.

"Do you need anything, Imrahil?"

The Prince shrugged. "In no particular order--a proper meal, a bath, some brandy, some sleep…." he glanced over at Nimrien, who had waited the entire day at his father's side. "Some reward for much princely behavior might be in order as well," he suggested, raising his voice slightly so that she might hear. "Negotiating a peace treaty single-handedly is a bit beyond what you originally required of me, my lady."

Smiling, she rose from the chair she had been sitting in and set a book aside. Imrahil, seeing the size and color of the cover, thought that it might be the book of Haradrim love poetry.

"Princely behavior indeed," Nimrien admitted, moving to him and standing upon her tiptoes that she might plant a sisterly kiss upon his cheek. The prince cocked an eyebrow.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"Ask me again after the eighth of May, Imrahil."

"You drive a hard bargain, my lady. We should have had you in there, instead of me. You'd have routed the fellow handily. He would have handed us Umbar on a platter."

Nimrien looked a bit wistful. "Do you know, I might have enjoyed that? But women are not allowed to be diplomats, no matter how wise they are."

"They are allowed to advise their diplomat husbands," Imrahil suggested, and Adrahil laid a consoling arm about her shoulders.

"_We_ know that this treaty would not have happened without you, Nimrien, and all of your help. I don't know if that is any consolation or not."

"Your good regard is always a comfort to me, my lord," she replied, snuggling close to him.

Hurin, Forlyn and a couple of the other members of the diplomatic party came up then, to ask Imrahil about the treaty, and its specific provisions. He answered their questions a bit absently, with one ear cocked towards the opposite side of the room. Denethor was a fast reader, he knew, and Asadel was as well. By now, they should be scanning the last clauses of the treaty, and at any moment would reach the last line…..

"TEN YEARS!" came the almost simultaneous exclamations, and tumult broke out. Imrahil grinned. His father stared at him, astonished.

"Imrahil, did you just make the Haradrim agree to a _ten-year _treaty?"

"Lord Khuzayam was more amenable to the idea than you might think, Father."

"Even so, what an accomplishment!"

"Indeed," Nimrien said, her eyes alight with joyful pride. "In time, it might very well become known as Imrahil's Peace."

The Heir to Dol Amroth tossed his head back and laughed. But he sobered again swiftly when he saw the Steward of Gondor making his way across the room towards him. His admiring audience drew aside to allow Denethor passage, and the Steward came to a halt before him with a considering look upon his face. Imrahil met Denethor's eyes and knew that there was no way he could ever go back to being Finduilas' callow younger brother--for good or ill, the Steward now reckoned him a player in the games of power.

"'Tis a fair treaty, Prince Imrahil," he said, his manner formal. "You gave more than I would have liked in some instances, particularly the trade provisions, but you also got much more than I would have expected. And the duration clause….very well done. Gondor thanks you for your service to her."

"It was my honor and pleasure to serve," Imrahil replied with becoming modesty, as his father and Nimrien looked on in approval at his consummate diplomacy. "Gondor is most welcome."


	11. Chapter Eleven

The Architect of Peace slept late the next morning, having threatened his oath brother and everyone else in his immediate family with dire consequences should he be disturbed. There was to be a farewell dinner that evening, and he would in all likelihood be expected to say some words, but his presence was not required for anything else until then, and Imrahil intended to take advantage of the situation.

He woke only briefly once, shortly after dawn, to pull the bed curtain nearest the window shut. The bed curtain also blocked his view of the door and muffled the sound; so when a knock came shortly after noon and a somewhat familiar voice announced that his breakfast should be eaten now if it were to be eaten at all, he called to the person to come in without thinking about it twice. Still rather groggy with overmuch sleep, it wasn't until the pale, slender hand grasped the edge of the drape that he realized it was not the maid, and by then it was too late.

The bed curtain was pulled back, and Nimrien gasped. "_Imrahil_! You've got _nothing_ on!" Her eyes were very wide, Imrahil noticed, though promisingly not as scandalized as they might have been.

"It was unseasonably warmlast night, my lady!" he protested, hurriedly shoving his legs back under the tangle of covers and yanking them up to his waist to preserve the proprieties. "I often sleep naked when it's warm, don't you?"

"I can't say that I do," came the trademark prim response.

"Well, perhaps you should," he suggested helpfully. "It's very refreshing. In fact, I find the mere thought of you doing it refreshing." Nimrien rolled her eyes.

"You knew that it was me, you flagrant fellow." Sensing that she was not truly angry, he grinned, and brushed his hair back off his shoulders.

"Truly, I did not. The curtain muffled your voice, and I was half asleep." He gave her his most sincere, earnest look, but she seemed unconvinced. "Not that I'm objecting! How did you get assigned to this duty anyway?"

"You needed to eat, after all that business yesterday. And you had everyone totally in fear of disturbing you, even Andra. So I volunteered. You may be used to cavorting all night and sleeping all day, but it's not good for you."

"I thank my lady for her care of me," he intoned, mock formal. Then, more brightly, "So--did you like what you saw?" He half expected a shocked protest, but she merely looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Do you know, I am not certain? It was such a quick glimpse." To his surprise, she set the tray on the bedside table, crossed her arms and regarded him sternly. "Lie back."

"_What?"_

"Lie back," she commanded once more, and curious, he complied, a warmth suddenly curling in the pit of his stomach. When he had done so, she grabbed the coverlet and yanked it down to his feet of a sudden, baring him completely. Her eyes then traveled over him very deliberately from top to toe, and it was as if they were fingers, touching him. He became aroused immediately. His response did not seem to frighten her, it merely made her contemplative.

"Do you know, I think even Hyandhil would have had difficulty mixing the right color for that?" The Heir spluttered, dumbfounded. "Yes, you are indeed very beautiful, Imrahil," she said at last, with the air of one offering a carefully considered opinion. "And I do like what I see. Enjoy your breakfast." Nimrien then turned and departed with no further ado, leaving Imrahil very much awake and with breakfast suddenly the last thing on his mind.

"Will my lady not return the favor?" he called after her plaintively, but the door was already closed.

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He joined his lady and his sister somewhat later, having finally risen and clothed himself. They were in the garden in the central part of the house, doing needlework and watching Faramir once more attempt to fish a carp out of the central fountain without falling in himself.

"What will you do if you catch one?" Imrahil inquired of his nephew. His only answer was a quiet grunt, and a sideways look from a pair of smoky grey eyes. The toddler leaned over a little too far in pursuit of his prey, and the young prince swiftly grasped him by the cloth belt that cinched his tunic.

"Let go!" came the imperious command. A small body wiggled in protest at the restraint.

"I think not," Imrahil replied. He was treated to a ferocious scowl. "Not unless you can prove to me that you can breathe water like the fishes." Inflating his cheeks, he popped his lips a couple of times in imitation of the carp.

Faramir stopped struggling and made a little chortle. Then he tried to make the fish face as well. Pointing a chubby finger at the fountain, he commanded, "Breave!"

Imrahil regarded the fountain and his nephew mournfully. "You want me to go soak my head?" A vigorous nod. The prince sighed. "First Father, then Nimrien, now you. _Everybody_ wants me to go soak my head."

Finduilas laughed. "They just don't want you to get a swollen head after yesterday's performance, Imri."

"But it's not just yesterday," her brother informed her. "They've been telling me to do it for years." Once more, he was forced to rescue his nephew from submersion. "_What_ is it that you want, Faramir?" he asked. Another scowl.

"_See_ fishy!"

"You want to look at one?" An eager nod. Imrahil regarded the fountain thoughtfully. "I suppose they are a bit of a tease at that. A flash here and there, but you never get a real look at them." A snort issued from Nimrien's direction. He took his nephew in his arms and got up to set him in his mother's lap. Faramir immediately began protesting, only to have his nose tapped by an admonishing finger. "None of that now! You bide here with your mother for a little, and I'll go see if I can't find something that will help you look at a fishy. All right?" Another nod.

Imrahil went in search of a maid, who promised to fetch him the thing that he desired, though she gave him a decidedly odd look, then returned to the garden. Faramir, whose attention span was apparently longer than most children of his age, immediately exclaimed "See fishy! _See_ fishy!" upon his return.

"Give it a few moments, lad," Imrahil told him. Faramir was good for a short period of time as the adults conversed, but soon began to squirm in impatience again. Fortunately, the maid returned right about then, carrying a blown glass bowl carefully in her hands. She presented it to Imrahil with a curtsey, then departed, shaking her head in disbelief. The Prince examined it appreciatively.

"Dol Amroth glass," he commented, then carried the bowl over to the fountain and sat down upon the rim, dipping it in and filling it with greenish water. "Come, Faramir, and I will show you a fishy." His mother released him, and the child slid down from her lap, swiftly toddling to his uncle's side. Imrahil rolled up his sleeves.

"Imri, you are not really going to try to catch one of those fish, are you?" his sister inquired, a hint of laughter in her voice.

"I tickled a trout in the White Mountains once," the Prince responded, his eyes intent upon the fountain, "and they are a much more…athletic sort of fish. How hard can it be to catch a fat carp?" He discovered the next moment that the fat carp were more agile than he had reckoned, when his hand flashed down into the water and came up with naught but a fishless handful of weed and scum. He regarded it in disappointment as the two women laughed.

"Look, Faramir, a snail." Imrahil pointed out the one interesting feature in his palmful of pond life, but the Steward's son was unmoved.

"_Fishy_."

"Right. Fishy it is." Two more fruitless attempts were made before he came up with a wriggling flash of gold in his hand, which he dropped into the bowl. Faramir squealed with glee. Child and young man leaned closely over the bowl, while Imrahil pointed out the fish's interesting features.

"See, there are his eyes, and his mouth…see how he breathes." The Prince popped his cheeks at his nephew once more, who made his funny little chortle again. "And there are his fins. The ones on the sides are like his arms, and steer him where he would go, while his big tail pushes him through the water." Faramir examined the fish with grave attention. "His scales are like little gold coins, don't you think? He's very shiny."

"Very," the small boy agreed. "Shiny."

Imrahil looked up at that moment to find Finduilas watching her son with love and pride in her glance. To his surprise, Nimrien's eyes were fastened upon _him_ and they were soft and warm. He realized that he'd all unwittingly done something right again.

Faramir was perfectly happy to watch the fish in the bowl by himself, Imrahil discovered a few minutes later, and after one sharp admonition, was careful not to touch the glass. This gave the Prince the opportunity to sit and talk some more with his sister and his intended object of romantic conquest, though he did not forget his nephew.

"We will have to put the fishy back in the fountain in a while, Faramir," he warned the little boy. Faramir frowned.

"_My _fishy!" he declared.

"No, that bowl is too small a home for the fishy. He would not be happy in it, far away from his mother and father and sister and brother fishes. You would not want to make him unhappy, would you?"

Faramir appeared perfectly content to make the fishy unhappy and was on the verge, it seemed, of a major tantrum. Then, gazing into the bowl a last time, he abruptly stopped, got up, trundled over to his mother and crawled up into her lap, hiding his face against her neck.

"Want Boro," he said plaintively. "Want Boro _now."_

"You will see Boromir at lunchtime," Finduilas soothed. "That's very soon."

This fact did not console Faramir in the least. "_Want Boro NOW!" _he insisted, looking up from his mother's shoulder to meet Imrahil's eyes. A shiver came over the young prince then, for the grey in the child's eyes was almost totally eclipsed by the black of the his pupils. The Heir to Dol Amroth got to his feet.

"I will return soon, ladies," he said.

"Where are you going, Imrahil?" Nimrien asked. She seemed to have noticed his unease, so he was careful to give Finduilas a reassuring smile that his sister not discern it as well.

"I need to check on something I'd promised Father I would do," he lied glibly. "I'll return shortly."

Feeling a bit of a fool, the prince walked swiftly out of the garden and into the nearby corridor. '_Tis nothing in truth, Imrahil, _he told himself severely. _ Merely a look from a child overtired and ready for a nap. We do not know if Faramir is a dreamer, and he is very young for it to manifest in any event. But it will do no harm to find Boromir and make sure that he is safe…_

Suddenly, there came a noise of many running booted feet, and two Swan Knights and a couple of Denethor's personal guard skidded around the corner and charged towards him.

"My lord prince!" one of the Swan Knights exclaimed. "You must come at once! There is trouble!"

"What has happened, Peloren?" he asked anxiously.

"Something about Andrahar and the boy! Andrahar has killed a man and wounded two others and the Haradrim have him in the courtyard with bows trained upon him!"

Shaken by the confirmation of his suspicions, Imrahil nonetheless kept his wits about him. "The Princess Finduilas and Faramir and Lady Nimrien are in the garden alone! I just left them there."

Peloren nodded. "I'm on it, my lord!" He looked to his fellow knight. "Thalion, go with his highness. _Don't_ let him go out there without armor! I'll get the ladies and young Faramir under cover and guard them with these gentlemen here."

The three men ran into the garden and as Imrahil and his escort took off in the opposite direction, the prince could faintly hear the ladies' exclamations of dismay. He and Thalion took off towards the front of the house. They spied no Haradrim, but upon the way, they met more Swan Knights, one of them his esquire, carrying his armor and sword.

"Here, my lord!" the young man panted. Imrahil shrugged quickly into his gambeson, and pulled the mail swiftly over his head with Orenal's help, garnering a sharp snag or two to his hair in the process. He slammed the helm onto his head as his sword was belted on.

"Peloren and a couple of the Steward's guard have gone to the Princess Finduilas, Lady Nimrien and Lord Faramir, but three are not enough," he told the men. "See that they are reinforced."

"'Tis done already," Maethor, one of the older knights, replied. "We were told to seek you out, my lord, by Captain Valandil's orders. Others have gone for your father."

"Very well then. Let us go find Andrahar." Surrounding their lord, the knights moved swiftly to the front door of the King's House. Again they encountered none of the Haradrim-until they exited the house into the bright noontide sun. There, they found the courtyard full of armed men from both countries, attention fixed tensely upon the center of the paved expanse. There Andrahar stood within a ring of red-and-black clad bowmen, their arrows trained upon him. More Haradrim stood at the alert upon the ramparts and there were men in colors of Gondor and Dol Amroth there as well, regarding each other warily.

A little way off to one side of the door was the Steward of Gondor, surrounded by a press of knights five deep, his hands laid protectively upon the shoulders of his quietly sobbing son. Upon the other side, Lord Asadel, Lord Khuzayam and other important Haradrim lords glowered suspiciously at the men of Gondor. Two Haradrim soldiers stood near the Haradrim diplomats, bloody cloth staunching wounds upon their sword arms.

"What is the meaning of this?" Imrahil demanded, starting across the flags towards his sworn brother. Andrahar lifted his head slightly.

"My lord prince, stay back."

"Your man," came Denethor's voice, "has slain one of the Haradrim, and wounded those two there. They wish for his life in recompense."

"Has anyone troubled themselves to ask him _why_ he did it?" Imrahil asked, pitching his voice so that it would carry, and continuing towards the bowmen. They were not so close together that he could not pass between them, and though they did not turn to aim at him, he could see their eyes widen slightly in consternation. He was careful to not set hand to sword as he approached, but told them "Hinder me at your peril!" low and fierce in their own tongue. Quailing at his expression, they let him pass unchallenged to reach Andrahar's side.

Who was absolutely furious at Imrahil's show of support. "_Are you out of your mind_?" he snarled. "This is no place for you! Get back before you get good men killed trying to protect you!"

"Ah, but you forget-I am also oath-bound to defend _you_, my brother_," _he murmured._ "_Blood oath binds both ways." More loudly, he asked the Haradrim, "I ask again-have you troubled to find out his side of the story?"

"Worthless are the words of a fatherless, houseless dog!" one of the wounded men cried, and there was a murmur of assent from the men-at-arms who surrounded Andrahar and guarded the Haradrim lords.

"And the words of the brother to the Heir of Dol Amroth? Are they worthless as well?" Imrahil challenged. "For this man is my oath-brother." The soldiers looked taken aback at that information.

"Then do you vouch for this man, condone his actions?" Lord Asadel asked coolly.

"I do!" Imrahil responded immediately.

"Without knowing the full story? Even knowing that his actions might abrogate the treaty between our two countries? The treaty you strove so hard to make?"

"Yes, for I know Andrahar. He would not have done what he did without cause."

"You still have much to learn of diplomacy, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, for all your accomplishments of yesterday."

The young Prince's eyes were grey as flint, his expression uncharacteristically stern. "But naught, I think, about honor. Unless there is someone here who thinks I need a lesson." Murmurs broke out among the Haradrim, and one or two of the younger men actually started to move forward, only to be restrained by their older colleagues.

"Imrahil, you are not helping our cause here, nor that of your man," the Steward called. "Quell that hot temper of yours."

Imrahil, who didn't think he was acting in a hot-headed manner at all, shot his brother-in-law a glare, and when he did so saw his father coming through the door to join the Gondorian contingent.

"Father?" came Boromir's somewhat congested query. "Are they going to hurt Captain Andrahar?"

"It is possible," his father replied. "They are displeased that he killed that man. They might want him given over to them for punishment in order for the treaty to hold. The treaty is more important than any one man's life, Boromir, for it will save many lives. Do you understand that?"

"But he didn't do anything _wrong_! Why won't they let him tell them?"

"Because I am base-born, young Master Boromir," Andrahar called to the boy. "Without house or father. So I have no status among them. It is that situation Prince Imrahil seeks to remedy by his avowal of kinship."

"THAT again?" Boromir wriggled out from beneath his father's hands, his earlier upset subsumed by indignation. "Of course you have a father, or you wouldn't _be _here!" His high-pitched voice carried clearly to the men, and there were some muted chuckles from both sides, and a slight lessening of the tension. "If they won't listen to you, _I _have a father and he is the Steward of Gondor! So _I_ will tell them what happened and they will have to listen!" He tried to move forward, out of the circle of soldiers, but his father restrained him once more.

"'Tis not safe, Boromir."

"My lord Steward," Asadel's voice came, politely deferential. "In his defense of the truth, your son, though young in years, carries himself like the son of princes he is. If you would allow him to speak, we would be pleased to listen. No harm will come to him, or any of yours while he does so. I swear it in the _Kha-khan's _name." In a lower voice, he added, "The boy may hold the key to this coil we are in."

Denethor, knowing the power of the oath and conceding the strength of the argument, immediately relented. "Very well then. Boromir, speak. And see that you speak truthfully and fully. Much rests upon your words." _Including a man's life, _Imrahil thought grimly. Boromir looked up at his father, sniffled once and nodded firmly.

"I will, Father." This time, when he stepped forth, he was not hindered, the guards parting before him, though the Steward followed close behind. Moving to a spot about three paces before Asadel, he bowed. The Haradrim lord inclined his head in turn.

"My lords." The childish voice was steady, the boy undaunted by being the center of attention from men of two nations, and watching him the Heir to Dol Amroth thought admiringly, _Bold, he is, this one. He will never lead from the rear._ He noticed something that looked like dried blood clotted in the hair on the back of Boromir's head.

"I had done with my morning lessons," Boromir said, "and my tutor said I could go to my rooms and play. But I didn't want to. I was tired of the toys I'd brought with me, and there wasn't anyone to play with. Faramir is too little to play the games I like and the only other child here is that _girl_ who stays with Lord Khuzayam." More chuckles from the Southron side. The Haradrim, Imrahil reflected, with the way their culture treated women, could certainly empathize with Boromir about that. He looked over at Andrahar and found him watching the boy intently.

"I wanted to see my pony, but knew I wouldn't be allowed, so I snuck out."

The young prince spared a moment's sympathy for the boy's unfortunate tutor, who would undoubtedly be hearing about the day's events, if he even managed to keep his job. Denethor's ire was a fearful thing to endure, his eldest son the apple of his eye.

"I got to the stables without anyone catching me," he continued. "Captain Andrahar was grooming his warhorse. I asked him if I could brush my pony, and he said yes and told me where the brushes were, since he didn't know I wasn't supposed to be there." Boromir gave the encircled captain an apologetic look. Andrahar's only response was a slightly raised eyebrow.

"So, I was brushing my pony and I heard voices down at the Haradrim end of the stables. There were soldiers down there, three of them, guarding their horses, I guess. They were playing bones. I wanted to see if they played the game the same way we do. I play with the Fountain Guard sometimes and it's a lot of fun. I thought I could bring a new game back home, and maybe win sometimes, since the Fountain Guard beats me a lot." More chuckles and some smiles, even on the Gondorian side. Adrahil had moved to the forefront of the mass of nobles and guardsmen, and was watching the proceedings, his diplomat face on.

"Anyway, I snuck out of the stall real quiet and went down to where they were. They seemed friendly enough, and one of them spoke our tongue. He explained the game to me. It was different, though not by much. We had just started a game when we saw Captain Andrahar coming towards us. The men all got to their feet and the one who spoke Westron grabbed my shoulders. 'Be easy, lad,' he told me, 'we're just going to have some fun with the captain.'"

"I didn't much like the sound of that, but I thought I'd better just be quiet, since they were grown-ups and all. Captain Andrahar came up, and he didn't look real happy with me, or with them. 'Let the boy go,' he said."

Here Boromir paused, his smooth young brow furrowed, and turned to face his father. "There are bad words in this next part, Father. Should I say them or not?"

"We need you to tell us exactly what happened, Boromir. So in this one instance, if bad words were spoken, you may repeat them without fear of punishment. You do understand, however, that it is not a license to use them in the future?"

"Yes, Father!" Boromir nodded vehemently, turned back to Asadel, then looked over at Andrahar. "I am sorry, Captain. I don't mean to hurt your feelings."

A smile flitted across Andrahar's lips. "I would have had to respect the original speaker of the words for them to hurt me, young master. Your repetition of them will hardly do me damage." His earlier anger at Imrahil gone, his demeanor was utterly relaxed once more. Not for the first time, Imrahil admired his oath-brother's fatalistic calm in the face of possible death. He himself was hardly so serene.

"Anyway, the guard who was holding on to me did not let me go. He said he would let me go if Captain Andrahar would tell him who his father was. Captain Andrahar told him that he had no father and no house, and told him again to let me go. He said that if he had to ask a third time and the guard did not do it, he would kill him. I don't think the guard believed him, because he said 'First tell me the name of the man who would father the sort of …dung-eating…whoreson…bastard who would betray his own people and I'll let the boy go.' Those were the bad words," Boromir added a bit unnecessarily, pausing for a moment. He glanced towards Andrahar, then down at his feet, then back up at Lord Asadel before he resumed.

"But Captain Andrahar didn't tell him his father's name. He said, 'This is the last time I will ask you. Release the boy now.' But the guard just laughed and said ''Tis but a name, traitor. Give it to me.' And then Captain Andrahar said 'As you wish. You were warned.' And his arm moved and something flew right by my head and I felt this hot wet stuff on my head." Boromir wrinkled his nose and reached back to touch the clotted spot on his head. "I was scared, because the man let me loose and fell back and when I looked down the man had a knife in his eye. It was horrible looking, all red and slimy." He shuddered a little in reminiscence. "The other men were shouting. Then Captain Andrahar jumped at us and grabbed my arm and _threw_ me behind him. He yanked so hard I thought my arm was going to come off! It _still_ hurts." His accusatory look at Imrahil's sworn brother did not bring an apology in response. "He yelled at me to run and keep running until I got to Swan Knights or our men, so I did. I could hear swords ringing behind me. But I did like he said and ran out of the barn and found some of Father's men. Then he came out of the barn soon after me and the other two soldiers followed him out. Their arms were bleeding and they were yelling for guards to catch Captain Andrahar. Before long, he had all those archers around him. And that's all I know."

When Boromir had completed his tale, an excited hum of conversation arose within both parties. The Steward of Gondor looked over at the two men within the ring of archers. "This whole business was about you not wanting to tell someone your father's name?" he asked Andrahar angrily. "Would it not have been simpler to do so? A man might still be alive."

Andrahar lifted his chin slightly. "I could not have done so, for I have no father and no house," he declared obdurately, watching the Steward's eyes darken with anger. Denethor knew all too well the custom about bastards. "And in any event it was not about my father or lack of one at all-it was about someone laying hands unbidden upon the person of a Prince of Dol Amroth. While _you_ might be willing to suffer folk to take such liberties with your son, as a Swan Knight I am not. As for the man I killed-any man who is too stupid to take heed of such a warning as I gave him is too stupid to live."

More murmuring arose from the Haradrim side of the courtyard, but it, and any further discussion between Denethor and Andrahar was interrupted by the arrival of Prince Adrahil, who now stepped forward, Captain Valandil at his side. Valandil had been Adrahil's bodyguard of choice for years and Imrahil could tell by his expression that the man was cursing silently as he moved forward into danger with his unarmored lord. He at least did not trust the Haradrim to hold their hands, now that Boromir's accounting of events was over.

Imrahil's father was most of the time a very affable man, but he did possess a formidable temper, and his wrath could be a terrible thing indeed. His son could see that he was wrathful now. He moved to Denethor's side behind Boromir, and laid a hand upon his grandson's shoulder.

"We are most displeased, Lord Asadel," the Prince of Dol Amroth said icily, the "we" being the royal pronoun that only he of all the men in Gondor could use. "Your soldier laid hands upon our grandson without leave and endeavored to provoke our man. And when our faithful servant sought to protect the boy, he was arrested by your men. Have you no control over your underlings? Is it Harad's will that the treaty we wrought with such pains be discarded already? Do you truly wish for war?"

__

Not if what Lord Khuzayam and Captain Faris told me is true, he doesn't, Imrahil thought almost gleefully. And indeed, given the opening presented him, Asadel became immediately conciliatory.

"My apologies, lord prince. When we restrained your man, it was because we did not know the truth of the matter. Your grandson, may the Fire burn bright within him, has by his testimony brought clarity to the situation. Your man will be released immediately." The general who stood close to Asadel raised a hand and barked an order. The bowmen immediately lowered their weapons and began to file away. The young prince let out a breath he hadn't even known he was holding, and Andrahar gave him an ironic smile.

"Is it the Prince's will that these two others be remanded to him for punishment?" Asadel asked respectfully. Soldiers moved to take the wounded guards into custody, whose faces showed that they were just now beginning to realize the magnitude of the mistake they had made.

"We think that we may rely upon you to punish them appropriately," Adrahil replied with lofty disdain. _And rather more severely than we would have done,_ Imrahil reflected, actually feeling a moment's sympathy for the two men. "But there is another matter to be settled," his father declared. "Our good captain's parentage or lack of it seems to be of inordinate interest to the Haradrim. Perhaps, even as our grandson has done in the other matter, we should clarify the situation. Andrahar, come here." The Prince of Dol Amroth moved from behind his grandson to stand directly before Asadel, and Andrahar strode quickly to his side, Imrahil trailing behind.

Adrahil looked down for a moment and smiled at his swarthiest captain. Then the Prince turned his attention back to the Haradrim and addressed them in their tongue.

"Lord Asadel of Umbar, be thou our witness. Lord Khuzayam of Fahrikhi, be thou our witness. Lord Fesayn of Khambuluk, be thou our witness. We, Adrahil of Dol Amroth declare that this man, Andrahar, is _our_ son."

Loud hubbub broke out among the Haradrim. As astonished as anyone else there, Imrahil watched as his father laid swift hands upon Andrahar's shoulders, turned him to face him and kissed him on brow, cheeks and lips as custom demanded. All color had fled from the younger man's face, his customary composure had left him and he seemed almost to be shivering as the Prince of Dol Amroth laid a proprietary arm about his shoulders.

"Now when someone asks you that question, you will have an answer for them," Adrahil said, still in Haradric, to the newest member of his family. Imrahil glanced at Denethor, who was unenthused at this new development, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he often did when confronted with an unpalatable problem. Boromir was trying to follow what was going on, eyes wide. Questions and muttering were arising among the men of Gondor as those who had heard and could translate informed their fellows of what happened.

"I thank you and your fellow lords for your cooperation in this matter," the Prince said to the leader of the Haradrim delegation. "Is our business concluded, Lord Asadel?"

"For my part, I am satisfied, my lord prince," Asadel responded a bit bemusedly. "I shall certainly see that our records of your house are amended to reflect this new information."

"Ah, so you _do_ keep records of kinship among the great houses of Gondor? I thought that you might."

"Of course. Such information is useful for ransom negotiations if nothing else." There was a bit of a twinkle in the Umbar lord's eye. "I am curious about one point myself, however, and am willing to risk his displeasure to ask Prince Andrahar a question, which of course he may or may not deign to answer." Andrahar still looked somewhat shaky, so Imrahil moved close to his other side in support. "What would you have been had you stayed in Harad, my lord?"

"Dead," rasped Andrahar, after swallowing hard. "Or at very best, a eunuch slave."

"Then it is difficult to argue with the logic of what others would call your betrayal," Asadel responded, slight surprise on his face.

"My prince…my brother…told me something soon after we met that I have always remembered," Andrahar said, his voice steadying as his usual iron control reasserted itself. "I had offered him my sworn word, and he had accepted it, to my great surprise. When I told him I was but a slave and had no honor, he said that anyone could have honor in Gondor, that they made it for themselves. I have indeed found that it was so, and I have never looked back."

"One has to wonder how many potentially gifted captains Harad has gelded and discarded for lack of the right pedigree," Imrahil put in.

"Our customs may not be yours, but they have served us well enough for many centuries, Prince Imrahil," Asadel replied rather sharply. "When Gondor can say that she has never had to suffer incompetent commanders upon land or sea who won their positions because of family connection rather than worth, then Gondor can take Harad to task upon that matter."

"Indeed. My lord makes a very valid point." Imrahil backed down, realizing that he had overstepped. His father threw him a warning look, then nodded to the Haradrim lord.

"A good day to you then, Lord Asadel. I look forward to our final dinner this evening."

"As do I, Prince Adrahil. I take my leave of you all." With a sweeping bow, he turned and walked away. Seeing that the drama was over, people began to disperse and go about their usual business.

"Was that truly necessary?" Denethor asked his father-in-law once they were alone.

"Indeed, my lord, you should not have done that!" Andrahar said, in rare accord with the Steward.

Adrahil shrugged dismissively as he released the Swan Knight. "I deemed it necessary. Andrahar is one of my most prominent captains, and given his background, it is likely that he might be sent to Harad one day in embassage." Imrahil had to forcibly stifle a laugh when he saw Denethor's lack of enthusiasm at this prospect. "This way, his status is not in question."

"He will not be accepted as a prince in Gondor, no matter what the Haradrim call him," the Steward warned.

"Of course not, Denethor! Don't be impertinent! I knew exactly what I was doing. But his status will be enhanced on our side of the border as well. If nothing else, it will be clearly understood that Dol Amroth holds him in the highest esteem. And besides, it was necessary. With Imrahil publicly claiming him as brother, I had no choice but to claim him as son, otherwise there would have been rumors about my late beloved lady which I could not have tolerated."

Adrahil's sense of humor could border upon the sublime at times, as it did now. Imrahil knew he had meant the remark as humorous and as son of the lady in question felt comfortable enough to chuckle. But neither Andrahar nor Denethor did so, both men with almost the same identical look of consternation on their faces. After a moment the Steward shook himself and looked down at Boromir, frowning severely.

"And now we must address the question of what to do about _you_, my son. For though your speech in defense of Captain Andrahar was bravely done, the fact of the matter is that the captain would not have _been _in such a dangerous situation had you not disobeyed your tutor and then put yourself into the hands of the Haradrim. A man died today because of your selfishness. I hope you appreciate how serious that is."

"Yes, Father," Boromir replied softly, his usual ebullience for once thoroughly quenched.

"As the pony was the source of your temptation, it seems just that you should be deprived of him as punishment. You will be going to Dol Amroth tomorrow with your mother and brother, to spend a couple of months by the sea. You may not resume your riding lessons or do anything with your pony until your arrival there. You will instead ride in the coach with your mother. I trust that I may rely upon you to abide honorably by this punishment even in my absence?"

"Yes, Father," the boy said again, his eyes cast down. Denethor's expression softened slightly, a hint of a fond smile at the corner of his lips for a moment. Then he said the last thing Imrahil would have expected of him.

"And I believe that you owe Captain Andrahar an apology."

It surprised Andrahar as well, though Adrahil merely smiled in benign approval. Boromir looked back up at Andrahar forthrightly enough, though his lips were trembling slightly. His father's disapproval was apparently harder for him to take than anything else that had happened. _He has had a number of shocks this day,_ Imrahil thought compassionately, _and is holding up very well despite them all. But I suspect there will be little trouble getting him to bed tonight!_

"I am sorry, Captain, to have gotten you in trouble. How may I recom…reckon…make it up to you?"

Andrahar hooked his thumbs into his swordbelt and regarded the boy gravely for a long moment. "You may recompense me by making me a promise, Master Boromir. Because of who you are, even now there are men who are oath-bound to protect your life with their own. And that is as it should be, for because of who you are, you suffer greater risks than some child of lesser birth. If you should be endangered through no fault of your own, then you need feel no guilt should those men fall defending you, for that is the duty they have sworn themselves to. But if you should cause men to die defending you because you stupidly put yourself into peril as you did today, then you are no better than a murderer. So I want you to promise me that you will always have a thought for the men who are protecting you, and not cause them to spend their lives needlessly because you were careless or selfish or heedless. If you will do that, then I will count myself content."

"Well said, Captain," Denethor murmured; then, to his son, "Can you promise that, Boromir?"

The boy nodded. "Yes, Father. Captain. I promise that I will always be careful so that the men protecting me won't get killed for no good reason."

Andrahar made one of his abrupt nods. "Then I am satisfied, young master. You should return to your mother now, I think-she will have been very worried about you."

"Indeed," said Denethor. "I think I will take you back to her myself."

"If you will excuse me, Father," Imrahil said. "I believe I had better go see if Lady Nimrien is worried about me." He grinned. "One can always hope. Are you coming, Andra?"

"I think I will keep Andrahar with me," Adrahil said, laying a hand once more upon the Haradrim's shoulder. "For we have much to talk about." Andrahar gave his liege lord and newly adopted father a searching look, then bowed his head in acquiescence and allowed himself to be drawn away.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Imrahil strode back into the King's House once more with the Steward and his son, the two men bracketing the wayward boy. The Steward's quarters were bristling with both Swan Knights and Denethor's men, who were relieved when told to stand down. All but the customary guard swiftly dispersed back to their other duties.

Finduilas and Nimrien had been sitting at a table in the parlor upon which lunch had been set, but little of the food had been eaten, and both women leapt to their feet when they saw the three enter the room.

"My lord, are you well?" Finduilas cried, going to Denethor and seizing him by the shoulders. She looked him up and down intently for any damage, and the Steward smiled the gentlest smile Imrahil had seen him make since the day of his wedding.

"I am well, my love, as is this young scamp here, though not for any lack of trying upon his part," and he pushed Boromir gently forward. The boy threw his arms about his mother's waist.

Nimrien was gratifyingly pale with worry, Imrahil thought. The next moment, he had his arms full of slender maiden, who had all but thrown herself into his grasp and twined her own arms tightly about his neck.

"You're in armor! Are you all right? Was there fighting?" She asked, the murmured questions a maddening tickle in his ear. For a moment, the young Prince wished fervently that they were alone-he thought that he might definitely be able to work with this situation. But they were not, so he settled for stroking her back gently a couple of times, and brushing her cheek with his lips.

"No fighting. And I was in armor because I was being careful."

"Which is more than I can say of you, my lord," Finduilas chided her husband. "A fine thing it is when _Imri_ is more cautious than you are!"

Denethor looked genuinely taken aback at this accusation, and Imrahil laughed.

"There was no time, my lady," the Steward temporized. What further excuses he might have made were interrupted by a loud thump from the next room and the sound of small, padding feet. Faramir appeared in the doorway, rubbing the side of his tousled head where he'd apparently bumped it, and blinking puffy eyes bleared with sleep. His attention was drawn to his brother immediately.

"Boro!"

Boromir released his mother and looked fondly at his baby brother. He suddenly seemed much less stressed. "Hey, Faramir. Roll off the bed again?" Faramir nodded as he toddled towards his older brother, almost overbalancing in the process. Boromir backed away from him, teasing Imrahil thought at first, until the older boy hopped up into one of the big upholstered chairs and held his arms down to the younger one. Faramir immediately leaned his upper body over the seat and tried mightily to climb up, with many grunts of effort. Boromir grabbed him by the arms, and with a grunt or two of his own, pulled him up into the chair.

"He cried himself to sleep over you, Boromir," Finduilas said.

"Poor Faramir! I am sorry, Mother, to have worried you and him. I will hold him for a while. He'll go right back to sleep if I hold him, you know that." And indeed, the little boy was already curling up against his brother and laying his head upon his shoulder. Boromir wrapped his arms about him and bent his head to whisper reassurance in Faramir's ear. Faramir smiled and closed his eyes.

"They're so sweet together," Nimrien murmured, looking all soft and maternal. She had let go her stranglehold of Imrahil's neck, but was still nestled close beside him. The Heir, who had his arm about her waist, was holding very still and keeping silent, lest she notice and object to their continued proximity.

"That 'sweet' older fellow there is in disgrace at present," his father commented dryly. "Finduilas, Boromir has been forbidden his pony until Dol Amroth."

She nodded acknowledgement. "What happened out there?" Denethor recounted the story from his point of view. Imrahil kept quiet. The Steward had just started to speak of Imrahil's joining his oath brother in very unemotional terms, as if it had been a bit of impulsive recklessness, when Boromir broke in enthusiastically, his arms still wrapped about his brother.

"You should have seen it Mother! There were all these archers with all these arrows pointed right at Captain Andrahar! And Uncle Imri marched right in there! He _growled _at them, and they let him pass because they were so scared! They were shaking! And then he stood there with the Captain and just _dared_ them to shoot him! He was so _brave!" _ Boromir continued to rattle on in this vein for some time, while Denethor listened patiently and Finduilas regarded her scapegrace brother with her usual sisterly disbelief. But Nimrien's eyes were glowing with admiration, and despite the pains Boromir had cost him this day, Imrahil could have kissed the boy.


	12. Chapter Twelve

Imrahil had feared that he would be called upon to speak at the concluding dinner that evening, and in fact had prepared some brief notes, but they were not needed. Instead, he found himself enjoying his food in peace while Denethor and Asadel reasserted their authority as the heads of the two negotiating parties. He thought he could have delivered the necessary and predictable platitudes with more flair than the Steward of Gondor displayed, though Denethor was a perfectly adequate public speaker; but for the most part, he was only too glad to surrender his position of preeminence and sink back into indolent obscurity.

His happiness was only increased by Nimrien's presence at his side during the dinner. Whether it was because the meal was a reminder of his diplomatic accomplishments the day before, or because she was remembering the danger he'd stood in that afternoon, her manner was soft and affectionate, and he was enjoying her gentle glances and sweet smiles. At one point, he caught his father watching them with benign and hopeful approval, and shot him a rakish grin, whereupon Adrahil shook his head in amusement and turned his attention back to Lord Khuzuyam. The prince and the desert lord had found each other to be surprisingly congenial company.

Andrahar was there as well, and against his protestations, seated at the table. Imrahil had not been able to wean any information from him at all about what he and Adrahil had talked about that afternoon, but the Prince of Dol Amroth had insisted upon Andrahar's presence at dinner, with a forcefulness that could not be denied, as a way of emphasizing that his decision of the afternoon had in fact been a genuine one. The Prince had also insisted that his newly adopted son wear something other than livery. So one of Imrahil's wine-colored tunics had been hurriedly hemmed up by Nimrien that evening before dinner. Imrahil thought that Andrahar looked particularly dashing in it, even if the Swan Knight had seethed in silent rebellion at being forced to don it. But Adrahil had not had everything his own way-he had been unable to convince Andrahar to don one of Imrahil's spare circlets no matter the argument employed.

"I still think you should have worn a circlet, Andra," Imrahil murmured to him late in the meal. "I have a delightful filigree one that would have suited you ever so well. With leaves on it. Sort of an Elvish flavor to it." The fulminating glare he received caused him to laugh out loud.

"And I was thinking of having morning arms practice before we set off tomorrow," came Andrahar's equally quiet response. "_Very early_ _morning_ arms practice. Which, as Heir and captain of this detachment, you should attend…" Black eyes watched in satisfaction as the smile disappeared from the young Prince's face, then Andrahar turned back to his meal without further comment. There were both Gondorian and native Haradrim dishes such as he most enjoyed upon the table this night, which had served to improve Andrahar's mood greatly, and the young captain was almost gluttonous as he reveled in gorging upon his former country's cuisine. Imrahil, who knew all too well from sad experience about the blistering heat of the pepper sauce in one of the bowls, winced as Andrahar spooned a huge dollop of it onto a lamb dish and dug in happily, without seeming to suffer any ill effects.

He heard a muffled chuckle from the lady beside him.

"I tried that earlier. Andra warned me, but I didn't listen. It took three cups of water and two pieces of bread to stop the pain."

"You didn't burn your lips, did you?" Imrahil asked, concerned. "I have designs upon those lips, I'll have you know."

"I assure you, that by the time _you_ have any use for them, they will be quite recovered."

"Then are they recovered already? For if I am to attend _very early morning_ _arms practice_," this was growled in Andrahar's direction, who merely smiled beatifically around his mouthful of scorching food, "I suppose I had best retire. And I had thought that when you were done with dinner, I might escort you back to your chambers."

"Then one might think you would be more concerned about the condition of my _feet, _Imrahil," Nimrien countered. "What have lips to do with such a task?" Those self-same lips smiled evilly. Andrahar swallowed and snickered.

"I will admit, I had thought to detour to the gardens on the way. The gardens, the moonlight, the fountain, your lips-it all seemed to work together so very well…" Imrahil leaned close to Nimrien's ear to whisper this, and she sat up a bit and shivered at the ticklish feeling of his warm breath upon her neck. Turning her head to look at her dinner companion she found him with the most ridiculous pleading look of expectation upon his face, and despite herself, she laughed out loud.

"A bit of a bonus for exceeding expectations in the princely behavior department, is that it?" she asked archly.

"Something like that," the Heir admitted. "Will you come if I promise that pomegranates will never enter into any conversation we might have?"

"That _is_ a powerful incentive…," Nimrien said, seeming to be considering all sides of the matter. Finally, she nodded. "Very well then. I have had more than enough to eat. You may escort me to my rooms, Imrahil. By whatever path you deem best. "

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

As Imrahil had said, his chosen path led him to the gardens, and the fountain. The moon had risen above the walls of the King's House and there were no other folk about, or so the Heir thought at first. Then he caught a shadow by one of the huge columnar yews at the edge of the garden, and realized that Andrahar had followed them at a little distance. He felt bad for a moment about depriving his oath-brother of the rest of his supper, then thought back over the impressive amount of food Andrahar had consumed and decided he'd probably saved the young captain from bursting his stomach.

"Is that Andra over there?" Nimrien whispered, looking over at the yew.

"Yes. I think he's a bit nervous about leaving me alone after this afternoon. And in truth, I am a bit nervous about him. We came this close-" he made a pinching motion with his fingers "-to losing him."

"I was afraid for both of you when I heard what was going on," Nimrien admitted; then, after a moment's hesitation she asked softly, "Imri, how does Andra feel about us?"

"_What_?" It was the last question he would have expected in such a setting.

"Andra. How does he feel about you marrying someone?"

"He knows that I must wed, Nimrien, and have children. Why?"

"Because there is something I need to know before things go any further between us, and I apologize for not asking it sooner. Are the two of you lovers?"

Imrahil's jaw dropped and he stared at his intended romantic conquest, astounded. "What would make you think that?"

Nimrien sighed, took a step away, then turned back to face him.

"Imri, I am not a fool. I have watched Andra ever since he arrived in Dol Amroth. Never have I seen him look upon a lady with interest, but I've seen him look at you in the way a man looks upon a woman he covets. I know that he adores you. What I do not know is if the two of you have acted upon that adoration."

"You know about my brothel bills, and the women in this city. My promiscuity was one of your chief objections to marrying me! Why would you think I am a lover of men, with so much proof to the contrary?"

"Because it would make sense for a man in your position who wants to keep the fact that you are a lover of men secret and is capable of sleeping with women, to be most flagrant about sleeping with them so that no one would suspect your true inclinations."

"That's true enough," Imrahil conceded, still feeling a bit pole-axed; then curious, he asked, "What if I told you that we _were_ lovers? What would you do?"

To his surprise, Nimrien became rather flustered. "I do not know!"

"You told me back in November that you would not share me with anyone, that if I strayed, I would never know if I had actually fathered your children. Are you saying that you consider Andra to be a different case? That you would be willing to share me with _him_, after all your proud words to the contrary?"

Nimrien made an abrupt, frustrated gesture. "I do not _know_!" she said once more. "I truly do not wish to, and think it would be a very bad idea. But I love your father so much, Imri, your family has done so much for me. And I love you. And I care about what happens to Dol Amroth. And Andra is my friend. If you are truly lovers, it might be better for everyone if you were wed to someone who cared about you both rather than to a stranger. You would not have to hide from me, at least. There would be no scandal."

Imrahil rubbed his temple. "So, you are saying that you can contemplate giving up your desire for an exclusive, romantic union for the sake of duty?"

"I suppose…I suppose that is what I am saying," Nimrien admitted, grimacing. She looked up at Imrahil. "Contemplate it at least. Actually _do _it? That I will not know until you tell me the truth about your relationship."

He frowned. "Do you truly understand what it is that two men do when they lay together? Does the idea of that not disgust you?"

"I have read _The Garden of Love _cover to cover, Imri. Lovemaking of any sort is not for the squeamish. What men do together does not repulse me any more than any other sort of intimate act."

Her suitor stared down at her, suddenly expressionless. Then, tersely, he asked-"Do you remember when I was nineteen, and went to sea for a year?"

"Yes."

"When I returned, I went to Minas Tirith and found Andra there. And I persuaded him to go to bed with me, because I knew that he wished to and that we needed to know if that was where our friendship was going. It was not a very successful evening, but I would have been willing to try again, as many times as Andra wanted, in the hopes that it would have become better over time. But Andra would not ever make the attempt again. He said that it was obvious to him that I was a man for women only, and that he would not imperil Dol Amroth's dynasty by sleeping with me when I did not truly desire him. So yes, we were lovers once in the past but we are not lovers now. And I will not lie to you, Nimrien-there are days when I still wish I could give him what he wants, for I do love him and hate that I have hurt him."

"I think that I can understand that," Nimrien said slowly. "Thank you for your candor, Imri." Looking both relieved and thoughtful, she glanced over at where their silent sentinel had posted himself. "Does Andra have anyone else now?"

"I do not know." At her look of surprise, Imrahil explained further. "Andra doesn't tell me if he's seeing someone. I think he thinks it will hurt my feelings. I can sometimes puzzle it out-if he actually starts taking the leave he has coming to him, it's usually because he's got a lover. But it doesn't happen often, and I never know who it is, and he doesn't talk about them while it's going on. His silence is probably to protect his lovers as much as anything else. There are statutes against lovers of men in Gondor's laws, you know. No sense in asking for trouble. Particularly if you are Andra."

"Indeed. And particularly with your family married into the Steward's. Do you think that Denethor knows?"

"I think he suspects, at least. Though the statutes have not been enforced in many years, and he would hesitate to do so, since it would offend my father greatly. Father will keep Andra safe."

"You will as well, I am sure."

"I am not sure that I am capable of much in the way of protection, at least where Denethor is concerned."

"You got his attention on this trip, Imri."

"Andra says the same! So much for my career of footloose venturing!"

"It would have had to come to an end sooner or later." Nimrien's voice was gentle. "And better this way than that you be killed in battle and leave your father with no heirs at all." She looked back over at the yew and raised her voice. "Andra. You might as well join us. I certainly shan't be kissing Imrahil with you hovering over there."

There was a disappointed sigh from Imrahil and after a moment, Andrahar moved out of the shadows and approached them. "Now you have done it, my lady," he said, though there was an undercurrent of humor in his deep voice. "I will never hear the end of the blame for his lack of romantic success this evening."

"T'was not your fault, Andra, but mine," the archivist assured the captain. "I fear that my mood was not so inclined towards romance as I had first thought. And perhaps it is a bit of Imrahil's as well, for thinking himself so irresistible."

"I am standing right here, you know!" the Heir protested.

"Indeed you are," Nimrien agreed, "and I have Andra to thank for that, many times over the last few years." She looked Andrahar in the eye, and the two of them regarded each other thoughtfully for a minute. "Thank you for looking after him, Andra. And thank you for keeping little Boromir safe today as well." And to both men's astonishment, she approached the young captain, stood up on her tiptoes and pressed her lips to his. Andrahar jumped a bit in startlement, then mastered himself. He even laid a steadying hand across her shoulders, though he did not participate any more fully than that.

"You," he told her when the kiss had ended, "are a wicked young lady." He seemed neither enthused nor dismayed.

"Not wicked enough by half," Imrahil grumbled, "and confused to boot."

"Perhaps," Nimrien suggested, "the two of you would escort me to my room?"

"As my lady wishes," Andrahar intoned gravely. Imrahil, seeing his plans for a romantic evening gone to dust, grunted an assent with much less grace, which caused Nimrien to giggle and Andrahar to grin suddenly, teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. She chatted cheerfully with Andrahar about Haradric cuisine while a somewhat sulky and silent Imrahil paced beside them as they made their way to her chambers, then bade the two men a cheerful goodnight. Andrahar frowned thoughtfully after the door closed behind her.

"That was unexpected." His finger touched his lips lightly. "And pleasant, which was also something of a surprise." He started towards their rooms with Imrahil still tagging along, looking confounded. "You will be relieved to know that her lips were not damaged in any way I could discern."

"You _liked_ her kissing you?"

Andrahar pondered the matter for a moment before he answered. "Yes. Yes, I did. The sniffing business the other day, now that was rather odd. But the kiss was surprisingly pleasant. You asked me once if being attracted to a man was the same sort of feeling as being attracted to a woman, and I could not answer you because up until that point I had never felt attraction to a woman. But now I am thinking that it is indeed the same sort of feeling."

"WHAT?" Imrahil stared at him as if he'd grown another head.

"I made a couple of attempts to be with women before, you know, when I was younger," Andrahar said matter-of-factly. "They were not successful. I am thinking now that it might have been because the women I chose were like my countrywomen, and accustomed to a subordinate role. Lady Nimrien is anything but subordinate. Her intellect makes her seem rather…masculine to me. That may explain the appeal. I wonder if there are other Gondorrim women like her."

"There's Lady Tirathiel. She's a scholar as well."

The Haradrim sighed and gave his friend a long-suffering look. "I meant of marriageable age."

"Why?"

"Because I am wondering if my attraction to men is simply because men were all I was ever exposed to, from a very early age. Perhaps this is something I should explore further." Andrahar took in his oath-brother's wide-eyed astonishment and smiled. They had reached the door to their suite, and he stood aside deferentially to let the young Prince enter first.

"Of course," he added as he went into his own room, "the way your courtship is progressing, Nimrien herself may be free eventually. I am a man with a good position, and a good salary. And a good soap recipe. I could support a wife comfortably enough, don't you think? Good night, Imri." And he closed the door behind him.

For almost a minute Imrahil stood there, flabbergasted. _ANDRA thinks Nimrien is attractive? And she obviously likes him, for all that she claims to love me. The two of them get along very well. Perhaps…perhaps I should step aside in his favor, if he truly finds her appealing, for such has never happened before. It might be his only chance to have a real family, and I could find any number of women who would be willing to marry me, and whom I could muddle along with…_

Andrahar was honest and did not dissemble as a rule. Imrahil had believed for years that that was at least partly because he had no talent for it. So until the laughter started behind the door, it never occurred to young Prince that he'd been had. When the truth finally hit him, his fist hit the door in response.

"Wretched Southron! Run your own arms practice tomorrow! I'm sleeping in!" The laughter grew even louder as Imrahil took himself off to his bed, disgruntled.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

In the end, Andrahar did not hold the threatened early morning arms practice, and Imrahil did not sleep in. Both men woke before dawn, snatched a quick breakfast of meat rolls and fruit on their feet, then busied themselves with the myriad details of getting the Prince's entourage back on the road. They were not alone in their efforts; the courtyards and halls of the King's House were filled with scampering esquires and attendants, servants grunting under the weight of trunks and bundles, and bellowing captains and chamberlains. Imrahil even saw Lord Khuzayam's dog Siyesha coupled on a leash with another, darker hound, in the charge of one of the silent, robed desert men being led away somewhere, presumably to their carriage.

By the time the sun had peeped over the horizon, all was in readiness. Adrahil, Nimrien, Finduilas and Boromir made their way out to the carriage. Finduilas was carrying a half-asleep Faramir, while Boromir querulously knuckled sleep from his eyes. Denethor was with them. There was an air of repressed concern about him as he wished his wife farewell that made Imrahil think that perhaps he was worried about her as well, and was hoping that some time spent in her childhood home might improve her physical condition and state of mind.

"Enjoy your holiday, my lady," he told her quietly, "but not too much, I pray you. For you have a home in Minas Tirith as well, and I will be missing you."

"I will not forget," she promised and the two embraced. Denethor kissed his wife's lips and his younger son's brow. Finduilas turned to enter the carriage and he turned away, only to come face-to-face with Imrahil. _What would he do if __**I **__were to embrace him in fine, brotherly, Dol Amroth fashion?_ the Heir wondered impishly, not that he had any real inclination to do so. The Steward studied him for a long moment before he spoke, and once again Imrahil had the feeling that his status had changed in Denethor's reckoning.

"I re-read the treaty last night, Imrahil. It was even more impressive upon a second reading. You seem to have inherited some of your father's talent for diplomacy. I will bear that in mind against Gondor's future need."

"Beginner's luck," Imrahil answered blithely, "but I thank you, my lord." He was well aware that he had just received as fulsome a compliment as he ever would from the Steward, and was downplaying the moment because Denethor looked almost uncomfortable. Besides, as far as Imrahil was concerned, it was the truth. Fortune had been with him in that the peace faction's desires had coincided so neatly with Gondor's, and he felt that he had merely been the instrument of that fortune-though he did give himself credit for persistence in the matter of discovering the custom of the Speaker.

"_Father_." Boromir was tugging at of Denethor's elbow. The Steward looked down, frowning slightly, only to be confronted with a pair of upheld arms. The frown vanished, to be replaced by a smile of surprising warmth, and Denethor stooped to hug his oldest son.

"You will remember that you gave your word about the pony, Boromir."

"Yes, Father."

"A lord's word is the most important thing he possesses."

"Yes, Father."

"And you will look after your mother and your little brother in my absence?"

"Yes, Father."

"Very well, then. Enjoy your time at the seashore. I look forward to hearing all about it when you return." He kissed his eldest son's brow and helped hand him up into the carriage, then turned to where his father-in-law stood. Adrahil did not possess Imrahil's reservations-he embraced his son-in-law as a matter of fact, and murmured something into his ear which Imrahil did not catch, but which caused the Steward to make a brief bark of laughter. Upon his release, Denethor looked at his family by marriage, his eyes passing over Andrahar with no acknowledgement.

"Until the autumn then, my lord prince. I will see you at Council," he said, addressing Adrahil; then with a curt nod, turned upon his heel and strode off to his own contingent of soldiers.

Andrahar, watching him go, murmured, "'Tis a shame your original plan for me to escort Lord Denethor back to Minas Tirith was rendered unnecessary by the peace treaty, my lord prince. That was a journey I was truly looking forward to," and he turned his most limpid gaze upon Adrahil. Imrahil blinked. He still did not know what had passed between Andrahar and his father during their private discussion, but this was the first time he'd ever seen his oath-brother joke, however mildly, with his father.

Adrahil seemed to realize the significance as well. "Yes, I can see that you are _prostrate _with disappointment, Andra!" he replied with a wry smile; then, clapping his adopted son on the back said, "Come, gentlemen, let's be off."

He started with Nimrien towards the carriage, and Andrahar moved in turn towards where his and Imrahil's horses were being held by a couple of esquires. Imrahil was starting to follow Andrahar when his eye was caught by a couple of dark-robed figures, one very small, coming out into the courtyard, and he walked over to them instead.

"Peace be upon you, Prince Imrahil," said Lord Khuzayam in Westron.

"And upon you and yours, my lord," the Heir responded in Haradric, looking down at little A'isha with a smile. The pearl he had given her had been removed from its earring setting and placed upon a thin golden chain. It hung, glowing, upon her forehead above the veil.

"Is that your lady, my lord?" she asked softly, pointing towards where Adrahil and Nimrien stood watching them curiously.

"Not yet. But I hope that she will become my lady."

"She is very fair of face."

"I think so."

"And is she learned as well? My lord said she was."

"She is indeed. Learned and wise. She speaks and reads five languages. This peace treaty would not have taken place without her help."

A'isha's small veiled face turned up towards her husband then. "I think that _I _should like to be learned and wise, husband."

Khuzayam smiled down at her indulgently. "It is not the custom among our folk, sand-swift."

Little dark brows drew down. "It has all been about custom, these days here in Gondor! I tire of custom!"

The desert lord chuckled. "Look what you have wrought, my lord prince! My tent shall know contentment no more, thanks to the ideas you've put in my wife's head!"

"I apologize for causing you a civil war, my lord Khuzayam," Imrahil said with a smile. "But did you not say that the best women are the hardest to woo? Does it also not follow that they might be the hardest to live with? But the most worthwhile, nonetheless?"

"Indeed. There is wisdom in your words, wisdom beyond your age," Khuzayam declared. He added magnanimously, a twinkle in his pitch-black eyes, "I shall forgive you the dissent you have sown in my household and wish you a safe and pleasant journey home."

Imrahil laughed and bowed, first to him, then to A'isha. "A safe journey to you as well, my lord and lady. And many, many years in which your dissent may flourish!" Khuzayam laughed out loud, though A'isha looked puzzled. Then Imrahil left them to rejoin his family.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Traveling with small children, Imrahil discovered on the return to Dol Amroth, tended to slow things down more than a little bit. The halts to attend to matters of elimination alone made the journey a start-stop sort of affair. Though the lady who was Faramir's nurse was accompanying them with her charge in a second carriage, Boromir's tutor had indeed been dismissed for his failure to supervise the Heir properly. The nurse had once been his nurse as well, but Boromir felt himself to have grown above her authority. Despite his affection for his younger brother, he would not obediently remain in the second carriage, which he referred to disdainfully as the "baby carriage". He wanted to ride with his grandfather and mother and Nimrien. And he was a child with a considerable fund of energy. More than once, Imrahil wished his brother-in-law had settled upon some other sort of punishment for the boy than denying him his pony-Boromir could have been learning to ride the animal upon the way and it would have hopefully worn him out. As it was, he was running Finduilas ragged with his continual demands for entertainment-until Andrahar took him in hand.

The young captain agreed to teach the boy some basic rudiments of swordplay in the evening, but insisted that he be properly conditioned to do so. So Boromir found himself running upon the grassy verge of the road once a day, trying to keep up with the carriage, while Andrahar kept pace beside him on his war-horse. Needless to say, the carriage moved ahead of him, but Andrahar always stayed near his charge, and would pull Boromir up on the back of his war-horse to catch up when the exercise was done, which served as something of a reward for the boy's endeavors.

"Why do I have to _run_?" he'd protested gaspingly one day to Andrahar while jogging along. "What does that have to do with swordplay?"

"It gives you the wind to do it," came the calm reply. "All the esquires at Dol Amroth run. All these men here did their time as well, and still do on occasion. And in sand, which is far more difficult than what you are doing! But if you would rather stay in the carriage and work upon your lessons or learn to play chess, by all means go do so. Perhaps your mother or Lady Nimrien might even teach you needlework to pass the time. My day is full enough already that I do not have to make it more so by teaching a whining, unappreciative child."

The threat of needlework and the insult both served to shut Boromir up in a hurry, and to give the boy credit, other than the muted groan he gave when a longer distance was assigned him later in their journey, he said no more about it. Andrahar for his part was as good as his word, and in the evenings would take the time to give the boy an hour's practice in swordplay, giving him basic positions and stances to practice with a wooden sword cut down to suitable size.

"And see that you practice throughout the day," the young captain said, "For I shall know if you do not."

"When am I supposed to do that? I can't have the sword in the carriage, Mother said so."

Andrahar shrugged bonelessly. "That is not my problem. If you are serious about this, you will find a way."

And Boromir did. The first thing upon rising, and during the hour's long stop for lunch at midday, he could be found practicing, and during every shorter break besides. This served to do much to quench some of his boundless energy and kept him out of his mother's hair besides.

"Valar bless you, Andra!" Finduilas told him the third day of Boromir's new regimen. Though Boromir did still spend the better part of his day in the carriage, he was much quieter and more biddable than he'd been before the sword lessons had started. More often than not, he would nap in the afternoon. Finduilas was very much enjoying the chance to spend time undisturbed with Nimrien and her father. The captain had cocked an eyebrow at her.

"The Valar do not know me, my lady." But he'd given her one of his rare, warm smiles as an acknowledgement.

Imrahil was also part of the tacit conspiracy to remove stress and strain from his sister, though he hoped to help himself a bit as well while he did so. He had not missed Nimrien's approval of his fatherly ability, so in the hopes of engendering further fond feelings towards himself, he would take Faramir up now and again. It was, he proclaimed virtuously, purely to give the nurse some rest. He was not sure if Nimrien believed him or not; but if she didn't, she was too polite to express her doubts aloud.

Faramir was, for the most part, easy to deal with. He was a very quiet child, unlike his ebullient brother, and for some reason he liked Imrahil. He was most content to ride for an hour or more, set before Imrahil upon his saddle and looking curiously about at the farms and towns they passed through. Sometimes he would point at something and Imrahil would supply the appropriate descriptive word, but more often than not he was silent and would usually fall asleep after a while, lulled by the rocking motion of the horse.

The first time Imrahil had ridden with him, he had returned to his mother a bit sunburned in the face, which had gotten Imrahil the rough side of his sister's tongue. After that, the young Prince was careful not to ride with Faramir in the heat of the day, and to shade him from the sun as best he could. His affection for the little boy grew with their increased interaction and he was able to contemplate his own future children with a little more confidence than he had been able to in the past. Adrahil, he had felt, had been an excellent example of a father, albeit a bit overprotective at times, but Imrahil feared that his own scapegrace past would give him overmuch sympathy towards childish pranks to be a good authority figure. The Steward of Gondor definitely was his superior there, he decided.

One night, when they were halfway to Dol Amroth, Imrahil received a pleasant surprise. They had actually been able to stop in an inn for the evening, with the company camped outside, and the nanny had used the excuse of plentiful hot water supplied by the inn staff to give both of her charges, who'd been cat-bathed the last couple of nights while in camp, a thorough cleaning. Boromir had stood upon his more mature masculine dignity and refused to have her in the room while he performed his ablutions, but an inspection afterwards, and some additional scrubbing behind the ears declared him sufficiently clean. Faramir had made no such protest, and had splashed and burbled in the tub most happily under the nanny's supervision.

Afterwards, Boromir sat close by the fire in the private parlor hired by the Prince, drying his hair before bed and reading over his lessons with his mother's help. Adrahil, Nimrien and Imrahil sat nearby while Andrahar leaned against the wall nearest the door. A knock sounded, and the nurse stuck her head in the door, jumping a bit when she saw Andrahar, who courteously opened it the rest of the way for her.

"Faramir wants to say good-night, my lady," she said to Finduilas, indicating the clean, sleepy toddler nestled in her arms. She carried him over to Finduilas, and Faramir reached his arms out to his mother. The nurse handed him down to her.

"'Night, Mama," he said, and Finduilas hugged him, dropping a kiss upon his head.

"Good night, little one," she said. Faramir then turned his attention to his brother, squirming out of her arms so that he could approach Boromir. Once more the arms went out.

"'Night, Boro." Boromir obligingly set his book aside to embrace his brother.

"Good night, Faramir." Once released, the little boy did not return to his nurse or mother as expected. Instead, he looked up at the table searchingly for a moment, then moved around it slowly, while all the adults present watched. The arms outstretched again.

"'Night, Imri."

Surprised and touched, Imrahil reached down and scooped him up, burying his nose in clean-scented child hair.

"Good night, Faramir."

"Tuck me?" came a muffled query.

"You want me to tuck you in?" Imrahil asked, surprised again.

The small head nodded. "Yes, you and Mama."

The Heir chuckled. "His Lordship has spoken! Coming, Fin?"

Finduilas smiled and laughed a little. "I suppose I must, if I am commanded! Boromir, continue with your lesson while I'm gone."

"Come up here to the table with Nimrien and me and we will help you, lad," Adrahil said and Boromir scrambled up to join them. The Prince then looked to the nurse.

"You come over here as well, lass, and have some of this mulled cider and some _adult_ conversation. You've been a real soldier this journey." The young woman smiled and moved to sit at the table, her head bent a little shyly. Imrahil, Faramir still clasped in his arms, rose and took the little boy to his room, his sister at his side.

8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8-8

Faramir went into his bed easily enough. There were no protests, and almost immediately after receiving his good night kisses, the little boy fell asleep. His mother and uncle stood looking down at him for a while.

"I will have you know I did what I could to advance your suit while we were in Pelargir, brother," Finduilas said to Imrahil softly, her eyes twinkling. "Daunting though the task was, I endeavored to recollect what few good qualities you possess and speak to Nimrien of them."

Imrahil smiled ruefully, and spoke quietly in his turn. "I thank you for that, Fin. Do you think it made any impression upon her?"

"I do not think it was truly necessary. She is very much in love with you, Imri. If she has any reservations at this point, it is more about the position of Princess than about the man who is Prince."

"Nimrien would make an excellent Princess!"

"I think so as well. But I cannot fault her for not wanting to be the husband of one of Gondor's two most important lords. It is not all privilege and easy living, as some of these young women who've been chasing you seem to think. There are real responsibilities attached to the job."

The Heir gave his sister a penetrating look. "Speaking of which-is Denethor treating you well?" he asked. "Because if he is not, I can always ride up to Tirith and give him some instruction about the proper care and feeding of a Princess of Dol Amroth. You look entirely too thin and wan, Fin. Nimrien has been worried about you. It was why she came with us to Pelargir, to see you. Your letters had her very concerned."

Finduilas shrugged. "I have explained matters to Nimrien-to her satisfaction, I think. I will not deny that I was unhappy for a while. My confinement with Faramir was difficult, and the birth worse. My strength was a long time returning, and it frustrated me. Though Faramir was such a good, quiet baby once he had come, no trouble at all, and that helped great deal. I am sorry if I worried her. As for Denethor…" she gave her brother a look comprised of equal parts affection and annoyance. "You _still_ refuse to give him any credit! He treats me well enough. It is just that…I miss the Sea. And Minas Tirith is so close to Mordor…it is as if I can feel the Enemy's malice beating upon us all the time."

Intrigued, Imrahil asked, "Do you really think you can?" His sister had never suffered the wave dream or anything resembling a precognitive episode, and had never expressed any desire to do so. Witnessing Imrahil's own life-threatening difficulties in his early twenties had ended any lingering desire or disappointment that the Dol Amroth gift had passed her by-as she had told him more than once.

"It may be naught but an odd fancy," Finduilas admitted. "But though I do not dream as you and Father do, Imri, I do _feel _things. And it is difficult sometimes, to act the confident Steward's Lady with that malevolence continually oppressing one. I think perhaps that Denethor feels it as well. He is so worried that he will make a mistake and doom us all."

"Why should he feel that it falls upon him to fight off our doom?" Imrahil was puzzled. "Things are somewhat more dire than they were in my childhood, it is true, but I would imagine that there have been ebbs and flows in the Enemy's activity before. We just signed a ten-year peace treaty with the Haradrim, for Valar's sake! Things are looking up!"

Finduilas looked down at her son pensively for a moment, then back up at her brother. Her eyes were storm-dark and the look in them chilled Imrahil to his very marrow.

"I am not so sure of that, Imri. I think that we may be coming to the end of things. _He_ will not wait much longer. You and Denethor and perhaps even my sons and yours will have to fight Him. I fear that it will come in our lifetimes."

"But you have nothing more than a feeling?"

"A very strong feeling, Imri. Have you truly felt nothing when you were in Minas Tirith?"

"No. Nothing like that. Nor has Father. Or if he has, he has not spoken to me of it."

"Then perhaps I am imagining things after all." Finduilas seemed rather distressed at this prospect. Imrahil thought he might understand why. _If we do not feel as she does, and there is no basis for her feeling this way, does she fear going mad? Is this the reason for her recent despair?_

"Or perhaps not," he said comfortingly. "My particular moonshine has turned out to have some basis in fact upon more than one occasion, as has Father's. We really don't know much about how the gift works, Fin. We don't pay enough attention to what's in the archives about it. It wasn't until I got so sick that we realized that it was possible to die from it, and that perhaps my great-great-uncle had. And I don't know if there's been anything written at all about the women in the family and what form the gift takes for them. Perhaps Nimrien can help us search the archives when we get home."

"If we could find out more about it, I would feel better," Finduilas admitted. "It would be good to know that it wasn't just a womanish fancy." Imrahil grinned at her.

"Don't take it the wrong way, but I'm hoping it _is_ a womanish fancy, Sister. Because Dol Amroth is in trouble if you are right, and I am its best hope of defense."

"_Stop it. _Just stop it, Imri!" Though her voice was still low, so as not to disturb Faramir, his sister's sudden vehemence surprised him, and he stared at her. "I _hate _it when you talk that way! Are you fishing for compliments? It's ridiculous, and I'm sick of it! You are a _Swan Knight_, which is hardly the easiest thing in the world to be, _and_ an excellent sea-captain to boot! And you just finished covering yourself in glory diplomatically down in Pelargir! This role you play, of the young wastrel lord, is wearing thin. Willyou _please _just admit that you're grown up? Because I need you to be grown up, I really do!" To his alarm, he saw that she was suddenly near tears, scrubbing at her eyes. He folded her into his arms.

"There, there, Fin! I promise-I'll be as grown up as you ever wanted! What is wrong? What can I do to help you?"

"It's nothing, it's nothing," she chanted softly against his neck. "I'm just tired, that's all. It will be so good to be home for a while! To see the Sea, I've missed it so…" She stood shuddering in his arms for some little while, while he stroked her hair and rubbed her back and shoulders and murmured words of love and encouragement. Eventually the shivering stopped, she sighed and mastering herself, stepped away. "Well, that's a start at least," she said, in a more normal voice, "on the grown-up part. Thank you, Imri."

"You are very welcome, Fin," he said, still troubled.

"Walk me to my room?" she asked, with a smile that was still slightly tremulous.

"Of course. I'll make your excuses, and see that Boromir gets to bed." He took her arm and escorted her from the boys' chamber.

"You can let him stay up a little later than usual, if you like," Finduilas said, with a touch of her old spirit as they went. "Perhaps he'll nap some tomorrow, if he does."

"I could take him out drinking and wenching. He'd sleep then, for sure. No, wait-no wastrel anymore!"

His sister actually chuckled. "And no Nimrien, either, if you did." He grimaced, and she chuckled again. "Just hold to your course, Brother. It wouldn't do for you to run upon the rocks at the very end of your voyage." They had reached her door, and she moved to step inside, but turned back even as she did so and kissed her brother's cheek. "I have faith in you, Imri-you're a canny sailor."

He bid her a good night, and went downstairs, still obscurely troubled. But he managed to hide his unease well enough that no one asked him any questions and, good to his word, he saw Boromir off to bed in due time.

That night he dreamed, as he had not dreamed in a long while. It was an innocuous-seeming dream, of his sister and what looked to be a five-year-old Faramir, on the ramparts of what looked to be Minas Tirith, watching some sea-gulls wheel about the Tower of Ecthelion. Like most of his dreams, the meaning was unclear-but an air of somber foreboding lay over the peaceful little scene.


End file.
